Consciousness was like a bubble slowly rising from the depths of the ocean. Ilya felt himself drifting through a thick, cold darkness that smelled of rusty iron, floating toward that dazzlingly bright exit.
The first thing that appeared on his retinas was a pure blue. It was the color of the sea.
It was the summer of 1965. The sunlight wasn’t too harsh; instead, it felt like a thick, warm oil enveloping the boy’s energetic body. Ilya swam freely in the waves of the Black Sea, his skin scented with imported sunscreen—a rare commodity his father had brought back from East Germany through special channels, giving one for his wife and one for his son.
He swam for a while, then suddenly lifted his head out of the water, casually sweeping his wet hair back. His blue eyes sparkled.
“Filaret, stop just running around like you’re at military training! Who comes to the beach and doesn’t go swimming?”
“You go have your fun! I’m going to work out a little longer!”
Filaret ran back and forth along the beach, building his stamina. Vera, his young Caucasian Shepherd, ran happily at his heels, tongue hanging out, her fluffy coat billowing in the summer breeze.
Filaret wore an extremely plain, even somewhat shabby white tank top, yet he stood as straight as a young birch tree just sprouting from the ground. He gazed resolutely ahead, his eyes flickering with a fervor bordering on the sacred.
It was an era that believed in “tomorrow.” In the years following astronaut Gagarin’s triumphant return, every Soviet youth’s blood ran hot, deeply convinced they were standing at the pinnacle of human history—and Filaret was the purest, most devout believer among them.
Ilya called out to him a few times at the top of his lungs. Seeing no response, he felt like a fool and returned to shore. He lay back on a beach chair, put on his sunglasses, and looked lazy and content.
He glanced around to make sure there were no other participants from the academy’s summer camp nearby, then pulled a privately modified shortwave radio from his backpack. Amid the grating static imposed by Soviet censors, he carefully tuned in to the rock beats of Voice of America, swaying slightly to the music.
Captivated by the music, he pulled out a Parker fountain pen and a piece of paper, twirled it between his fingers a couple of times, and jotted down a few lines of poetry:
My love,37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEatlx47gOX
Don’t worry about tomorrow’s bread, don’t worry about the world’s dogmas,37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP9zJwgbbkF
Let’s just hold each other tight in this moment of rock ’n’ roll.37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlTuDBqBifz
You and I will elope in the free sea breeze, making wild love under California’s golden sunset.37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwhBeEcKRvo
If love is a disease,37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvrQyYvWcan
I’d gladly fall terminally ill for you…
Filaret ran back and, as he passed by, caught Ilya in the act. Without a word, he pressed the radio off with one hand, snatched the manuscript with the other, gave it a cold glance, tore the pages to shreds, and flung them into the sea.
“Hey! Don’t be such a killjoy!”
“You know there are KGB censors at the summer camp, right? You already have a record at the Institute of International Relations. If they find out you’ve been listening to Western music and writing these ideologically corrupting poems, not even your old man could save you!”
Ilya muttered resentfully, “Censorship, always censorship—it’s all they do! Back at the School of International Relations, all I did was record a speech on ‘Humanistic Socialism’ to share with a few classmates. Was all that criticism and writing self-criticism reports really necessary? It’s so petty.”
“At least they did one good thing—they spared the female students at the International Relations Institute from your flirting,” Filaret teased him, yet a touch of bitterness slipping into his voice. “But that’s not exactly good news for me. There are already so few female comrades at the Academy of Sciences, and now all the ones who used to talk to me have gone off to see you.”
Ilya burst out laughing. “Who can you blame? Comrade Filaret, you should’ve gotten rid of that drab overcoat ages ago. Dressing like that on a date makes the other person think they’re flirting with a statue of Lenin.”
“But that’s the only decent coat I own, and it was passed down to me by my father. He hardly ever wore it himself while he was alive, afraid of getting it dirty or torn,” Filaret said gloomily. “Got any cigarettes? Lend me one.”
“I only have Cuban cigars. Want one? Top-grade tobacco—I guarantee you’ll savor the aftertaste.”
Filaret swallowed hard, clearly tempted, but driven by a strong sense of pride, he declined and walked straight to the beach kiosk.
He browsed the shelves, eventually settling on the imported American cigarettes “Marlboro” that Ilya had once lent him. But they were too expensive—ten rubles a pack, nearly twenty percent of his monthly salary.
“The accursed cancer of capitalism,” he muttered under his breath, trying to mask his embarrassment.
In the end, he gave up on the Marlboros and, feeling dejected, settled for the cheapest loose tobacco instead. He carefully tucked away the change he’d received, then turned to go back to Ilya.
He pulled a yellowed page from *Pravda* out of his pocket, carefully rolled the tobacco into it, and after kneading it skillfully, struck a match to light it. The acrid smoke exploded instantly, like a rusty piece of metal scraping harshly against his throat.
“Cough! Cough, cough, cough…”
“Why have you stopped smoking even ‘Prima’—that cheap, unfiltered domestic crap—and switched to this low-grade tobacco?” Ilya waved his hand dismissively to clear the smoke. “This stuff is way too harsh.”
“There’s nothing I can do. I finally managed to go on a date with that girl the other day, and I spent my entire month’s allowance on dinner, but after the meal, I never heard from her again.” Filaret sighed. “Ilya, please give me some useful advice. Dating girls is just too hard.”
Ilya gave him a mischievous wink.
“Isn’t it simple? Sneak a few romantic movie posters onto your dorm wall, and get yourself a pair of jeans—even if they’re second-rate knockoffs from the black market, they’re guaranteed to sweep those art school chicks off their feet. Oh, and one more thing: when you’re having sex, don’t go reciting The Communist Manifesto to her. In bed, Marx won’t be able to help you.”
Filaret turned his head, looking a bit embarrassed, but mostly resigned.
He was at a loss for words for a moment before firing back defiantly, “You’ve gone through one girlfriend after another, which proves that all these flashy tricks are useless. If you’d devoted half the energy you spend on picking up girls and eavesdropping on American radio to the lab, we wouldn’t be on a summer camp vacation right now—we’d be standing on Red Square receiving an award, just like Professor Anton.”
As if in agreement, their sheepdog, Vera, let out a loud “woof.”
Filaret suppressed a smile and said, “Comrade Ilya, look—even Vera can’t stand it anymore.”
“That dumb dog doesn’t understand human speech. Mind your own business—go away!” Ilya picked up a small pebble and tossed it aside; Vera immediately barked and gave chase. The two burst into hearty laughter, their laughter carrying far out over the sound of the waves.
After laughing for a while, they both fell into their own pensive silences, their gazes unconsciously turning toward the horizon.
“Filaret, do you remember? I mentioned before that my father told me there’s a small island in the Black Sea where the government is building a secret scientific research institute. I had a falling-out with my family over transferring academies, so this time I have no choice but to follow orders and go work there. Filaret, if I go there…”
“It’s not ‘you,’ it’s ‘us.’ My dissertation is almost finished; we’ll go together.” Filaret interrupted him, his eyes burning with intensity. “‘The productive forces of society are, first and foremost, the power of science.’ We’ll advance science at the institute, contribute to the nation, and become Soviet heroes like Gagarin.”
The scene suddenly shattered in the brightest sunlight.
The dream rapidly shifted, and the brilliant gold gradually faded under the passage of time.
Three years later, at the Black Sea Research Institute, they jointly developed a new strain of plague bacteria. This strain could be loaded into projectiles, aerial bombs, and other delivery systems while maintaining an extremely high survival rate.
They were no longer the greenhorns vacationing on the beach, but outstanding national talents standing shoulder to shoulder in the ranks of scientists, participating in the Red Square military parade.
Fighter jets screeched across the sky above Red Square, the tracks of T-64 tanks grinding over the asphalt with a clanking sound, and the air was thick with the pungent smell of fuel and burning rubber. Launchers carrying massive Scud missiles and SAM anti-aircraft missiles moved slowly through the parade. Wherever the launchers passed, the crowd waved red flags and flowers with fervor, their cheers thunderous.
As a child of privilege in Moscow, Ilya had long been accustomed to such grand spectacles. When he had received the commendation letter from the National Academy of Sciences, he had been somewhat excited; now, he merely cast a few curious glances at the latest military hardware, his eyes darting about as his mind likely conjured up yet another crazy idea for weapon modifications.
Filaret, however, was entirely different. He had deliberately put on that cherished gray overcoat, stood tall gazing at the red flag, and had tears welling up in his eyes. His mind was a blank at that moment; his lips trembled slightly, and he couldn’t utter a single word. In his heart, he felt that even if he were to give his life for the country today, he would die without regret.
Ilya watched idly for a while, then couldn’t resist leaning in to prod Filaret into speaking.
“Look, our dear old Professor Anton isn’t here today.” Without taking his eyes off the parade, he lowered his voice. “It’s strange—to be absent from such an important occasion as the military parade. Has something happened?”
Anton was one of the Academy of Sciences’ most renowned elders and their mentor, having provided them with immense guidance and support during their graduate studies.
Not long ago, Anton had applied for retirement on the grounds of ill health. The university had tried desperately to keep him, and even high-ranking officials had personally promised to let him stay in Moscow to receive the country’s finest medical care. But he had never given a clear answer, and now he had been missing for several days—so much so that the KGB had even stepped in to investigate.
Filaret lowered his voice to a whisper, his lips barely moving. “Watch your words. This is a sensitive matter, and I don’t want the KGB knocking on my door again.”
“Do you know the inside story? Spit it out—don’t keep me in the dark.”
“That man… he’s probably in a place where the Red Star can’t reach him now.”
“Huh? That man is just as patriotic as you are—how could that be…”
“Patriotic? I’d say that’s doubtful.” Filaret snorted lightly, a hint of displeasure in his tone. “Anyway, that man came to talk to me half a month ago. He casually mentioned wanting to retire and asked what I thought. I told him he was still young and the country needed him. He just smiled and never brought it up again. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
Ilya suddenly realized, “So he wasn’t content to hibernate in a bear’s den either; he wanted to be a soaring eagle chasing the sun. But seriously, why did he talk to you and not me? If I’d known sooner, I would’ve—”
“And what would you have done? While enjoying the fruits of the people’s blood and sweat, living a comfortable and well-fed life, you still aren’t satisfied?” Filaret’s eyes suddenly darkened, his gaze piercing Ilya like a poisoned arrow. “Comrade Ilya, you’d better take back what you just said. Otherwise, I won’t hesitate to report you to the KGB and send you to a dark cell to rectify your thinking.’”
Ilya realized he had spoken out of turn and quickly swallowed his words. However, when he belatedly sensed the threat in Filaret’s tone, his expression shifted slightly, and a shadow flashed across his eyes.
“Comrade Filaret, are you threatening me? Well, I’ve also been meaning to report someone for corruption and dereliction of duty—someone who steals canned food from the research institute’s cafeteria rations all the time…”
“Shut your mouth! I’m often busy until late at night—what’s wrong with opening a can when I’m hungry? They’re going to be thrown away anyway if I don’t finish them—why shouldn’t I give them to someone in need? It’s laughable for a spoiled rich kid like you to talk to me about fairness.”
Both men stared straight ahead at the reviewing squad, neither looking at the other, locked in a silent standoff.
Filaret’s gray tweed coat reeked of mothballs. Ilya had never found this cheap scent so repulsive; he frowned deeply. Meanwhile, the scent of Ilya’s expensive imported cologne made Filaret’s stomach churn, bringing him to the brink of nausea.
“Enough,” Filaret said, breaking the silence with a stern expression. “Comrade Ilya, spreading such negative rhetoric in Red Square will do your future no favors.”
Ilya pouted resentfully, unwilling to let it go. He clicked his tongue and retorted, “Then you shouldn’t harp on my background all the time. Just look at how our professor has been favoring you these past few years.”
“Favoring me?” The word grated on his ears. Filaret raised an eyebrow and retorted sarcastically, “That man has always favored you. It’s precisely because he didn’t want to drag you down that he chose to keep it from you, leaving all the responsibility for explaining and the risk of being implicated to me!”
“But I didn’t feel any of that!” Ilya muttered defiantly.
He hadn’t forgotten that back in college, Anton had always assigned Filaret to lead core projects, praising him for being steady and reliable; while he, Ilya, was always relegated to the role of deputy. Even during their reunions after graduation, Anton would still go on and on about how lazy, reckless, and impractical he was…
Filaret sighed, shook his head, and, too tired to argue further, asked, “Have you opened the envelope on your desk yet?”
“What envelope?”
Filaret couldn’t help but let out another heavy sigh. “Your desk is a total mess—I shouldn’t have expected you to find it on your own.”
“Fine, I’ll look for it later. What’s in that envelope?”
“During our private meeting, that man mentioned an idea to me—‘Brainwave Signalization.’ He said that if we could convert brainwaves into signals, wouldn’t we be able to completely defeat cancer and death? I wrote down a summary from memory and left it on your desk. Take a look when you have a chance.”
Ilya mulled over the phrase “Brainwave Signalization,” his eyes suddenly lighting up. “If that’s the case, humans could transmit consciousness, no longer bound by time and space… That’s true freedom—the path for the soul to reach heaven!”
For once, Filaret refrained from invoking materialism to refute his counterpart’s anachronistic religious rhetoric; his own eyes likewise sparkled with a vision of the future.
“That’s exactly what I think. Since signals can be edited, it means we can filter out the impurities in our thoughts and maximize virtues like loyalty and resilience. Just imagine—we could create national heroes with our own hands—no, more than that, the entire Soviet people would eventually become heroes…”
Yet, as he spoke, a flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes, and he shook his head, dismissing his own idea.
“The problem is, this concept is too far-fetched. How would we design the equipment? How would we operate it? I have absolutely no clue at the moment… I’d better just focus on finishing the project I’m working on right now.”
“It won’t hurt to give it a try!” Ilya was eager to jump in. “Dear Comrade Filaret, rather than letting this manuscript gather dust in a corner, why not hand it over to me! I already have some preliminary ideas in mind!”
Filaret shot him a withering glance: “Take it. Do your research, but don’t blow up the lab.”
They whispered to each other, exchanging harmless jabs, as if the earlier argument had never happened. On the surface, they remained as harmonious as Siberia’s fleeting summer. But the two of them knew better: beneath that thin layer of sunlight, the permafrost had never truly thawed.
Just then, the ceremonial cannons of the military parade boomed in unison. Without a moment’s hesitation, the two men stopped talking, stood at attention, raised their right hands—fingers pressed together—straight above their heads, and rendered the most impeccable salute.
They knew the leader was about to appear to inspect the troops and deliver a speech. Even Ilya, who was used to being undisciplined, dared not show the slightest sign of slackness at that moment.
As the cannon fire died down, the roar of the loudspeakers filled Red Square:
“Workers of the world, unite!”
“Serve the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—”
The deafening roar gradually shifted in pitch, the image flickered erratically, and finally everything plunged into darkness. Ilya faintly heard shouts, dog barks, violent collisions, and chaotic footsteps all mingling together.
A hoarse voice screamed hysterically, “Turn on the power to Lab 6 immediately! Turn it up to maximum!”
“Rumble… sizzle… sizzle…” Some kind of massive, high-powered machine began running wildly.
What was that? What on earth was happening?
Right, Lab 6... He remembered. That was the lab housing the “Brainwave Signalization” equipment. Development had hit a technical wall; over a dozen death row inmates serving as test subjects had been electrocuted to the point of near-death, yet not a single useful data point had been collected. Later, the government restricted power supply, and the project had long been in a state of semi-suspension.
“Set the shock parameters to maximum… Good. I must seize this opportunity; I absolutely cannot fail…” Someone was panting heavily and muttering nervously to himself, “God will forgive my sins…”
Finally, a deafening explosion completely drowned out the agonized screams. The world of his dream shook violently; the scenery before his eyes peeled away in layers like dried paint, eventually crumbling to pieces.
It was at that very moment that Ilya slowly opened his eyes.
He had briefly awakened the day before, but had soon fallen back into a deep slumber due to his weakness. Now, as he opened his eyes again, all he could see was the shimmering surface of water. For a moment, he was dazed, almost believing he had returned to the vast, sunlit blue waters of 1965, but the icy sensation on his skin quickly snapped him back to reality—he was confined within the culture tank of a massive machine.
Having been imprisoned in this paralyzed body for years, his muscles had severely atrophied; he could barely feel his limbs, and even the slightest attempt to move his little finger felt incredibly strenuous. The only distinct sensation was the few tubes inserted into his body to maintain his vital signs.
Gritting his teeth against the intense discomfort, he surveyed his surroundings under the flickering light of a tungsten filament lamp. It took him a long time to realize that this was none other than “Laboratory No. 6,” the facility once used to study the Signalization of brainwave signals.
However, the changes here were so drastic that the place bore little resemblance to his memories.
The vast space was dominated by the massive machine that had trapped him, with mountains of discarded parts and debris piled up everywhere around it. Mold had eaten away at most of the walls, and dark red rust spots covered the water and heating pipes. A few metal lab tables and chairs were haphazardly piled in a corner, equally pockmarked with rust.
Filaret walked in, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them, and their eyes met once more.
Ilya couldn’t help but scrutinize this face that was both familiar and unfamiliar.
When the incident occurred in 1979, Filaret had just turned forty. But he was born to a life of hard labor, aging before his time; even then, his temples were already streaked with gray. Now, his hair was entirely gray, his wrinkles as deep as if carved by a knife, and two heavy dark circles hung beneath his eyes, making him look exceptionally aged and haggard.
The heating here seemed to have been out of order for quite some time. Philareet wore an old woolen cap and had layered several garments haphazardly, with that same drab overcoat still draped over the top. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, yet still shivered uncontrollably from the cold.
Yet even so, Philalete did not leave immediately. He stared intently at the figure in the culture tank, took a dazed step forward, then recoiled as if pricked by a needle, retreating with evident trepidation.
Seeing this, Ilya curled the corners of his mouth in a sneer.
He knew that Philalete was afraid of him, and he knew exactly what the other man feared. Likewise, he believed that Philalete was aware of the bone-deep hatred in his heart and fully understood the source of that hatred.
That accident all those years ago… neither he nor the other could ever let it go, for all eternity. They were destined to remain entangled like this until death.
The heavy metal door once again emitted a sharp, grating screech. This time, it was the robot “Worker-01” that walked in, reeking of heavy machine oil and rust.
It shuffled its ugly body—a patchwork of scrap metal—toward Filaret. The infrared sensors where its eyes should be flashed frantically, and its mechanical arm, clutching a parcel, swung about haphazardly.
“Ugh… I brought…”
Could it be that the National Defense Committee had finally replied? A smile lit up Filaret’s face as he snatched the package from the robot’s grasp and tore open the wrapping with trembling hands.
“God bless, please don’t let it be another damn medal—I don’t need them! It better be a check—no, better yet, cash or gold bars! That way I can buy some food and coal from the last remaining fishing family on the island...”
Worker-01 circled around Filaret as if seeking praise, its mechanical mouth opening and closing: “Ugh… I brought it… look…”
Filaret was so focused on unwrapping the package that he didn’t even bother to glance at it. Until “Worker-01” extended its mechanical claw, caked in black oil, and tried to grab his arm, emitting strange, incomprehensible gibberish:37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhUWwZksK8U
“Fetch… three, two, one, three, two, one…”
“Damn it!” Startled by its sudden move, Filaret kicked it away with all his might. Behind that look of revulsion lay a distinct, deep-seated fear. “Get away! Don’t touch me!”
Worker-01 staggered back a few steps from the kick, then froze in place, its entire body as still as death. After a long moment, it staggered forward again and began to walk away, its vocalizer emitting a continuous, malfunction-like, shrill buzzing: “Woo-ee… woo-ee…”
Ilya watched Worker-01’s retreating figure from inside the culture tank, a pensive look on his face.
The package was finally opened. The look of ecstasy in Filaret’s eyes vanished the moment he saw what was inside—it was nothing more than an ordinary postcard of a scenic view, with no official emblem at the top. But when he took a closer look at the design of the postcard, a tiny glimmer of hope miraculously flickered in his eyes.
The front of the postcard featured Miami Beach. Under the blazing sun, the pristine white sand and the deep, crystal-clear sea shone in perfect harmony. Behind a row of palm trees stood a massive Ferris wheel, flanked on both sides by a dense cluster of skyscrapers.
The letter was addressed to Ilya, and Filaret’s name was not mentioned once throughout the entire text.
Filaret’s eyes flickered, completely ignoring the letter’s intended recipient—who was pressed against the glass wall trying to make out the handwriting—and read aloud:
“It’s been many years. I hope you are well. I apologize for leaving without a word back then and for not having kept in touch with you since. Now that the Berlin Wall has fallen and the winds of freedom are sweeping across the Eurasian continent, this letter and package from Miami should reach you safely without causing any trouble.
Back then, I traveled to the United States under the radar to undergo treatment for my tumor using the most advanced high-energy X-ray linear accelerator, and I have now fully recovered. I plan to find a small, uninhabited island in the Pacific to live out my days in peace, but before I retreat into complete seclusion, I’d like to come see you first and discuss some matters with Filaret.
My access to information is limited, but I know you were promoted to Deputy Director of the Black Sea Institute over a decade ago. I’m sure arranging a secret meeting won’t be difficult. Meet me on the beach at midnight, one month after this letter is sent. I’ll be entering the country under a legitimate identity, but since I’m still technically a fugitive, we must keep a low profile at all times.
I know your position is unique; even amid the collapse of the Union, you should have been able to remain safely within the system, living comfortably. Asking you to give all that up would be too cruel. I promise this meeting is solely for catching up. If you don’t want to discuss anything else, we won’t—I’ll never put you in a difficult position.
I’ve included a small gift with this letter; there’s one for Philalete as well. Please pass it on to him for me.”
The letter was signed at the very bottom as “Angus Keller.” But Filaret had no doubt that this was merely a pseudonym—the writer was none other than their former mentor, Anton Korolyov.
After finishing the letter, Filaret reached into the package to look for the gifts.
He had to admit that even after all these years, the old professor’s memory remained remarkable; he knew their personalities and preferences inside out. The two gifts were clearly meant for different people at a glance.
A pack of ordinary Soviet-made cigarettes was obviously for Filaret.
Stuck to the pack was a note written in Anton’s own hand: “I originally wanted to send you Cuban cigars, but knowing your stubborn streak, I figured you wouldn’t accept them. I’ve arranged to meet with Ilya—why don’t you join us for a smoke and a chat? We have important matters to discuss. Don’t be so quick to refuse me. As you can see, the Red Star is about to fall, and a pragmatic, outstanding scientist like you shouldn’t be lost to the times.”
The other gift was an American-made Parker fountain pen, gleaming with a cold metallic sheen—a present for Ilya, who was accustomed to Western luxury goods.
Filaret’s gaze darted back and forth between the two gifts before him. His facial muscles twitched imperceptibly, and a cold, resentful fire began to smolder deep within his eyes.
He suddenly crumpled the letter into a ball and hurled it, along with the two gifts, violently onto the concrete floor. His voice rose sharply as he roared like a cornered beast:37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIjGEwTID2J
“Biased… All these years have passed, and you’re still so biased!”
Inside the culture tank, Ilya watched the other man’s face contort beyond recognition with a cold gaze, feeling nothing but utter absurdity.
All these years later, couldn’t this fool still see the truth? The person Professor Anton had always truly favored—the one he truly wanted to protect—was clearly himself!
Filaret cursed a few times, then, in a fit of rage, slammed his fist hard against the culture tank. He paced restlessly back and forth in the lab, taking a long time to finally calm down. His gaze fell once more on the American-made Parker fountain pen lying on the floor, and he picked it up along with the crumpled letter.
As for the pack of domestic cigarettes, he didn’t even glance at it a second time, kicking it straight into the shadows in the corner.
“Might as well take the pen… I sold off all my valuable stuff to the fishermen ages ago. I can’t even remember the last time I saw something this high-end. Who cares who the professor favors? Since he’s come knocking tonight, I’m sure to make a tidy profit. Looks like the CIA’s treating him pretty well… I’ve really had it with this godforsaken backwater…”
Muttering to himself nervously, he walked over to the rusty lab table, picked up a yellowed notebook, and tore out a page with a sharp rip. He twirled the fountain pen he’d just acquired, removed the cap, and tested it on the paper, drawing a few fluid strokes of ink.
“Hmm, not bad. It’s a good pen.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the glass tank. Ilya was still trapped inside, his expression a mix of grief and rage, using every last ounce of strength to pound futilely against the inner walls.
Filaret’s expression suddenly darkened. “Stop struggling. I will never let you see Anton, and I certainly won’t let him know what really happened all those years ago. Before he gets here, I have to clean up this loose end… That’s right, I should have killed you long ago! If I pull out this oxygen tube right now, it won’t be long before it’s all over…”
Filaret muttered to himself with a vicious look on his face, reaching behind him to yank the oxygen tube out of the tangled mess of pipes. As if showing off a trophy, he flung the tube violently at Ilya’s feet and raged hysterically:
“See that? Screw the Soviet Communist Party! Screw ‘eliminating class privileges’! Screw ‘evil Western capitalism’! Screw ‘the people standing united’! You’re going to rot in this tank forever!”
Ilya guessed his intention. His deep blue eyes suddenly widened as he glared at the other man with venom and hatred. Beneath the transparent mask, his lips moved silently, forming the words: “Go ahead and kill me. If you’ve got the guts, kill me.”
Filaret glared at him. “You think I wouldn’t dare? The entire institute has long since descended into anarchy—I am the master here! Killing you would be easier than squashing an ant!”
“Hah… Of course you dare. ‘Seize the opportunity at all costs; failure is not an option,’ isn’t that right?” Ilya mercilessly struck back with the very words Filaret had spoken during the accident in 1979, “Filaret Ivanov, you’ve been beyond redemption for a long time. Your soul is doomed to be trapped in this aging, ugly, sin-ridden shell, rotting and stinking away while you’re still alive…”
Filaret didn’t know which of those words had struck his Achilles’ heel so precisely. He was struck as if by lightning, his face turning deathly pale, as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. His whole body shook violently, and the hand that had been about to violently yank out the tube froze mid-air.
Their eyes trembled violently, locked firmly on one another. Their gazes clashed fiercely under the cold, white glow of the broken light, silently exchanging some secret buried deep beneath the rubble—a secret known to no one.
“Kill me. Kill me, Ilya Molotov, and you’ll be completely free.” Ilya repeated, his eyes brimming with defiance.
Filaret’s fingertips trembled uncontrollably.
Whether it was due to the lingering fear within him or the sheer terror of his opponent’s maddened gaze, he ultimately could not bring himself to pull out the tube. He collapsed against the cold wall like a sack of potatoes, utterly drained, and let out a long, rotten, despairing sigh within this massive tomb of steel.
In a daze, he turned and walked out of Laboratory 6. Just as the heavy metal door was about to close completely, he murmured his final words through the crack:
“You’re lucky… This can’t be rushed. I need to come up with a foolproof plan. Once I’m ready, I’ll be back…”37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS9O2HZpNpm
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