Hannah Adler, April 5th, 2025

  The smell of morning coffee, the cigarette haze after sex, new lace lingerie, and the taste of chocolate on the tongue — she wondered if other people thought of things like that when they said happiness was found in the small things.

  On the table before her lay a confection, wrapped in the finest golden silk. Ribbons, thin as red veins, were tied at the ends, all of it enclosed in an ash-gray box nestled in a layer of softly pink paper. It looked like a relic preserved from some world where beauty was not to be disturbed.

  She thought it would be a sin to unwrap it and devour it in a single bite. She closed the box and pushed it away with the tips of her fingers, as if refusing temptation.

  “Deepest apologies, Miss Adler. Not to your liking?” came a calm voice.

  She waved her hand dismissively. At that signal, the butler in a white shirt and dark suit leaned in, took the package, and carried it away — along with the cloud of heavenly scent.

  “Why lie? It is your favorite chocolate, after all.”

  The voice that coiled around her waist was sharp and masculine, far too close to ignore.

  Improper, she thought, but said nothing.

  She simply rested her chin in her palm, refusing to waste her voice. His fingers slipped from her waist and closed around the porcelain cup. The black liquid trembled as he brought the cup to his pale pink lips. He took a short sip. It drew her gaze — then her full attention.

  “It’s unbelievable how you can drink that without any sugar or milk,” she remarked, lifting her chin.

  She looked at him from her small height, with a hint of superiority.

  "Life is sweet enough — I prefer my coffee bitter," he replied, setting the cup down.

  The liquid swayed, yet not a single drop spilled over the rim.

  She didn’t look down on him for long. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and with his other hand he pulled her in by the waist. He leaned over her, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. Strands of his hair slid across her cheeks and came to rest on her lips. He pressed his nose to hers, a sly smile cutting through the moment.

  “Where were we?”

  “That’s enough for today. I have work,” she mumbled, averting her eyes.

  He let go abruptly. Her body sank back into the pillows and blankets scattered across the bed.

  “In that case, you’d better go get ready,” he said, lifting the cup again.

  As he brought the coffee to his lips, he jerked. The dark liquid spilled down the rim of the cup, carving a hot path through the fabric of his robe. She lifted her hand, almost instinctively, as if to help him. The heat must have burned him.

  He simply straightened, silent. Step by step, he walked toward the door.

  "You're heading out," he threw over his shoulder without turning, waving his hand.

  She lowered her head, the sting of defeat bitter — like his coffee.

  "I am."

  She was alone. The silence of the room was thick, filled only with the lingering scent of coffee and cigarette smoke hanging in the air. She stretched across the pillows, inhaling it, her gaze fixed on the cup he had left on the table. The dark traces still shimmered along its rim.

  Then she rose.

  Cold water spilled down her body, her skin prickling at first like the surface of a frozen lake. Then she relaxed, surrendering to the chill. Droplets slid down her long black hair, clinging to her shoulders and back. Her pale skin, marked with black tattoos resembling old seals and symbols, gleamed under the thin sheen of water. She closed her eyes and let it fall over her face. It lingered on her lashes, breaking there into tiny prismatic sparks before slipping down to lips the color of early dawn.

  Today was the day. The day she had waited for for months. The final exam for the recruits.

  She would finally see firsthand who was capable of joining the Directorate — Amber’s special unit.

  She stepped out of the shower. Silk fabric wrapped around her body — cold and light as breath. Her clothes were already waiting in the room, fresh from the cleaners, pressed and ready.

  A white shirt embraced her frame, and she fastened wide trousers with a thin leather belt at the waist. Everything carried the tone of early autumn: a suit in the calm colors of dry leaves, shoes in the same quiet harmony. Over it she drew a long coat, her finger tattoos disappearing beneath black leather gloves. The necklace was her only accent — heavy, golden, its medallion resting on her chest as if it measured every heartbeat. She pulled her hair into a long braid but left a few strands free to frame her face, to soften it. For a moment she paused before the mirror. Her eyes were dark, but determination shone within them.

  She wondered what the selection would be like this year. Whether anyone would pass the test. Or, more importantly — whether anyone would survive it.

  At the exit she hesitated, as if the building’s threshold weighed her resolve. In her hand she held her phone. The screen lit up, and her finger slid across a name:

  Leonid Frost.

  She took a deep breath and, after a brief pause, sent the message. Only then did she slip the phone into her pocket and head down the stairs. The sound of her heels echoed through the hallway until it dissolved into the city noise.

  She stepped out into the cold air. The street was bathed in morning light, and the rows of cars hummed like a river. She unlocked a black car, got in, and started the engine. The glow of the dashboard lights washed over her face as she lowered her head for a brief moment, as if wanting to hold on to something only she could feel.

  Then she straightened.

  It was time to go.

  Leonid Frost, April 5th, 2025

  The bed was wide and long, draped in silk sheets, buried under pillows and blankets. In the dim room, behind crimson curtains, the scents of tobacco and whiskey lingered in the air. The girls lay across the bed, one over the other, asleep and peaceful. Their heads rested on his shoulders, strands of their hair spilling across his chest.

  In the center of the bed lay he — a sculpted body, dark hair messily falling across his forehead. His arms spread across the headboard as if he were part of the luxurious furniture itself. His eyes remained closed until a brief vibration from the phone on the table caught his attention. One green eye opened, glinting in the half-light.

  Slowly, he leaned over the girls to reach the phone. They stirred a little, but continued breathing in the rhythm of sleep. He grabbed the device with his whole hand, careful not to knock over the glasses, bottles, or ashtray scattered across the nightstand. The screen lit up: Hannah Adler.

  He read the message:

  I’ll be there in five minutes. Get ready.

  He ran a hand across his face. Then he reached for a glass, poured whiskey, and downed it in one breath. He felt the alcohol burn his throat and sink into his stomach. With effort, he rose from the bed, leaving the women to sleep in the dimness while he stepped out of the room that smelled of satisfied vices.

  In the next room, filled with half-shadow and scattered belongings, he grabbed a shirt thrown over the arm of a chair. He pulled it on over his shoulders, fastening the buttons lazily, half-asleep. He found his trousers on the floor, crumpled beside a chair, slipped into them, and tightened the belt in haste. From the door he took his suit jacket, slung it over his arm, and shrugged into it with a few rough movements. There was no mirror, nor any intention of looking perfect; he looked like a man who relied on his natural charisma more than on a tailor.

  He turned around the room a few times, searching for what he was missing. His gaze halted on the small table, where under the glow of a half-burnt bulb lay a golden pocket watch engraved with runes. He seized it and slid it into the inner pocket of his coat, as if returning his heart to its place.

  At the exit, he ran his hands through his hair a couple of times — tousled, heavy — as if that alone could set it right. He didn’t try any harder.

  Without a word he closed the door behind him, leaving the room to keep smelling of tobacco, whiskey, and the dreams of the women scattered across his bed.

  He stepped outside the building, the red curtains on the windows behind him still hiding the darkness of his room.

  On the sidewalk, Hannah’s car awaited him — a black Mercedes E220 with unmistakable plates. The moment he spotted it, he approached and opened the passenger door. He sat, drawing in the scent of leather and paper filling his lungs.

  Without a word, Hannah handed him a coffee in a cardboard cup, not even looking his way.

  “With three sugars and milk?” he asked with a half-smile, his fingers curling around the cup from the bottom.

  She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the road ahead.

  "Seatbelt."

  He fastened the seatbelt without further comment. The engine growled, and the car glided off the curb noiselessly, carrying them toward a day that promised little peace.

  He sipped the coffee as he opened the glove compartment with his free hand. From it he pulled out a folder and flipped through the papers. The silence in the cabin was dense, filled only with the low hum of the motor and the occasional glide of tires over asphalt. Hannah stared straight ahead, never sparing him a single glance, as if he were only a shadow beside her.

  “Anyone promising today?” he broke the silence, his eyes still on the documents.

  She braked sharply. The car jolted, and his coffee spilled over the rim, soaking the folder. He snapped his head toward her, but she gave him only a brief look — cold, incisive — before returning her gaze to the road. She exhaled shortly, almost disinterested.

  “Maybe a few.”

  He nodded, closed the folder, and tossed it onto the back seat as if it had suddenly lost all value. Then he began rummaging through his pockets, searching for something.

  “There are cigarettes under the seat,” Hannah said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye without turning her head.

  He laughed, a smile half-charm, half-mockery, and reached down to take them.

  Anton Smederev, April 5th, 2025

  Chaos buzzed around him. Voices overlapped, footsteps echoed against the stone slabs before the hall, and nervous whispering swarmed like bees. Anton clutched the folder of documents tightly against his chest, as if it could give him courage. His gaze swept across the sea of faces. There was everything: petite girls with stiff shoulders, massive men with scars on their arms, young men in the best suits they could rent, women in modest coats, faces of every age, temper, and social class. Some appeared calm, almost indifferent; others trembled, avoiding eye contact. And all of them were here for the same reason — the final exam.

  An exam that meant life or death, because only those who survived and proved themselves became part of Amber, the elite unit.

  Directorate Amber — a name that echoed in every story about the defense of the state. A unit above both police and military, guarding the border of the world from things ordinary people weren’t even allowed to know existed.

  Anton’s blond curls danced in the chilly April wind as he scanned the crowd with measured eyes, as if weighing them — who was weaker, who stronger, who would fall first. Yet his heart pounded like a drum, because he knew — someone might already be weighing him in the same way.

  A cold gust suddenly brushed down his spine. He jolted and turned sharply.

  They passed beside him. Two people. Their presence sliced through the commotion like a blade. A dark-haired man with unhurried movements, a cigarette between his lips and his hands in his pockets. Beside him walked a woman in a shirt that followed the lines of her body and a suit the color of early autumn, her long coat whispering with each step. Her chin was lifted, she spoke something under her breath, and he answered with a half-smile — a look radiating lazy, yet chilling confidence.

  People moved out of their way without realizing it.

  Anton shivered. He swallowed hard, unease tightening his throat. He didn’t know why he had to look at them, but he knew there was something the two of them carried that no one else did. An invisible aura spread around them — dense, intimidating. As if they carried with them a cold shadow of power strong enough to be felt on one’s skin.

  The hall was enormous, built like an old amphitheater but with a modern design. The seats stretched in a semicircle across several tiers, each row rising above the next so that the center could be seen from every angle. In the middle stood a podium — simple, but set apart — with a single table and chair. On the far wall hung a large screen, white and blank, as if waiting to swallow light and return it as an image.

  Anton walked in slowly, following the column of people flowing inside. His fingers still squeezed the folder to his chest as he moved down the aisle. He chose a seat in the middle — high enough to see everything, but not too conspicuous. The chair creaked as he sat, the sound blending with dozens of others — the rustling of sitting, shifting, and shallow breaths. The noise from outside spilled in but gradually faded into a tense, quiet hum.

  Then he saw them.

  Standing at the podium were the two figures he recognized from the entrance.

  The man — dark-haired, broad-shouldered, leaning lazily toward the microphone.

  And the woman — pale, upright, in a suit the color of early autumn. They looked calm, but their presence was so strong the air itself seemed to tighten around them.

  The man pulled the microphone toward himself. A short, sharp burst of feedback echoed through the room, followed by a murmur of unintelligible words. Someone laughed in the audience but fell silent instantly.

  The woman elbowed him sharply, then stepped in to adjust the microphone herself. Her precision and cold expression made Anton’s half-formed smile die in his throat. There was something strangely frightening in such an ordinary gesture.

  When she lifted her gaze and swept the hall, her eyes carried the same weight Anton had felt outside — a quiet, terrifying force. He knew. They belonged to Amber.

  “Welcome, candidates,” she said, her voice even but piercing.

  She didn’t need volume, only rhythm — perfectly measured words.

  “To the final exam, where we will discover whether any of you have what it takes to join the Amber Special Unit.”

  She paused, letting the silence swallow every remaining whisper.

  “First, introductions,” she continued. “My name is Hannah Adler. And beside me stands Leonid Frost.”

  She spoke their names like a sentence. Anton’s stomach tightened, as if he had been called personally. Just looking at the two of them, he felt as though he sat before judges who knew no mercy.

  “If anyone believes they are not worthy of today’s test, please step forward,” Hannah said, extending a hand toward the large double doors.

  For a moment, silence. Nobody moved.

  From the balcony a voice rang out — quiet, but firm: “I’ve waited for this my whole life.”

  Anton felt blood rush to his face. He nodded, as if agreeing with the unknown candidate — and with his own decision. He wouldn’t quit.

  Hannah’s gaze swept the room, cold and methodical, as if measuring every face individually. When no one moved, Leonid wordlessly took the microphone from her hand. He walked to the table with theatrical calm, opened a folder on it, and skimmed the lines written there. The room grew so quiet that the only sound was his deep breathing, picked up by the microphone and turned into a heavy echo.

  Then he spoke — his voice hoarse, weighted with smoke and whiskey.

  “Last year… no one passed. We had…” He paused, scanning the page again. “… thirty-eight deaths among the examinees.”

  A wave of noise rippled through the hall. Someone gulped audibly, someone else cursed under their breath. Anton’s heart gave a fearful tremor.

  Leonid continued, indifferent, as if reading a newspaper.

  “The year before that… no one passed. One hundred and twenty-five deaths.”

  Anton felt his throat go dry. His hands tightened around the folder so hard his knuckles whitened. On his left, he heard a girl whisper, “God… one hundred and twenty-five…” Someone behind him laughed nervously, almost hysterically.

  Leonid’s expression briefly brightened. He looked at Hannah and raised a brow.

  “And the year before that… that kid made it, remember?”

  Hannah looked at him with pure indifference, without a smile.

  A shiver passed through the hall like a cold wave. Anton felt the skin on his neck prickle — and yet, a spark of hope flickered in him. That kid made it.

  So it was possible.

  Leonid grew serious again, his face turning cold and hard. He looked back at the audience and spoke in a tone that left no room for doubt.

  “This is not a game. My warmest recommendation — if any of you have loved ones waiting at home, go back to them and quit now. If I were you… I’d do the same.”

  People began to stand even before hearing what the test was. It was enough to sense the danger to decide not to face it.

  Anton sat unmoving, as if rooted to the chair; withdrawal never crossed his mind. One by one, people stood, murmuring apologies, filing out through the double doors. The hall gradually emptied, the number shrinking — perhaps fifty remained. Some left quickly, without looking back; others walked slowly, as if trying to cradle their fear.

  Leonid smiled faintly, as if that was exactly what he had expected. He handed the microphone back to Hannah and sat down without haste, leaning against the high back of the chair. His smile was no comfort; it was the smile of a man who knew he had invited them into a game many had already refused to play.

  “Good,” Hannah said, her voice slicing through the room. “Now we can begin.”

  At those words, the hall darkened; the lights above flickered, and a projection came alive on the screen behind them — pale and sharp in the darkness.

  An image of a building appeared in large scale, drawn as a grid of floors. Each level emerged like a layer: room plans, entrances and exits, ceiling heights, hallways, staircases — everything assembling in quick, precise flashes, like the map of a prelude. Numbers flickered in the corners, marking distances, dimensions.

  Anton studied every line, every white dot marking a possible passage.

  “We will divide you into groups of five,” Hannah continued, pointing toward the projection like a judge pointing at the field. “Your objective: locate the bomb and deactivate it before the timer reaches zero.”

  The screen abruptly shifted to the image of the bomb: smooth metal, sensors, a red digital timer counting down from thirty minutes. Beside it appeared a technological scanner — a diagram of the internal structure and sensor data.

  Someone rose from the back rows and laughed, the sound tainted with mockery.

  “You don’t call Directorate Amber for something like this.”

  Hannah only smiled slightly — not mockingly, but as if confirming something she’d already seen countless times. Anton clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened; every frame on the screen carved itself into him. He followed every detail, absorbing it as if he’d soon need it. Then, like a final seal on everything spoken, Hannah delivered her next words with unquestionable certainty.

  “The bomb will be guarded by a spirit from a relic.”

  A ripple spread through the hall — whispering, then a collective gasp. Some clenched their hands, others snapped their heads toward their neighbors as if searching for reassurance. Anton felt his breath catch; this test was no longer just about skill or bravery. It was a confrontation with something beyond ordinary danger — with an entity.

  “But a human can’t kill an entity, everyone knows that!” someone shouted from the back, his voice sharp, almost desperate. He was immediately joined by murmurs of agreement: “Exactly!” “It makes no sense!”

  The room stirred into commotion, chairs scraping as people shifted, nodding, whispering uneasily.

  Leonid rose from his seat. In a lazy gesture he took the microphone from Hannah’s hands and lifted it. The sound of his breath filled the hall, and then he spoke — calmly, but with a tone that tolerated no opposition.

  “No one said you’re supposed to kill the spirit. Your objective is to deactivate the bomb… and stay alive.”

  Silence returned as if someone had sliced the air. The murmuring vanished, voices died out. Only the nervous breathing of the crowd trembled through the room. Hannah gave him a short nod, taking the microphone back. Her eyes traveled across the rows, and Anton felt — though he couldn’t be sure — that her gaze lingered somewhere near him.

  “The entity guarding the bomb,” she said clearly, “is mine.”

  In that moment, everyone in the hall seemed to forget how to breathe.

  Slowly, she reached toward the chain beneath her shirt. She pulled it out, revealing the medallion that had been hidden until now. The gold shimmered under the projector’s light, casting warm reflections across her face.

  Anton felt his stomach flip, his eyes widening. It was the first time he’d seen a relic so openly, so close — not in pictures, not behind museum glass, but right before him.

  Hannah slid her palm across the medallion, then closed her eyes. Her voice was soft, yet every word echoed through the room.

  “Come, Kai.”

  The metal began to glow — faintly at first, then brighter and brighter, illuminating the podium with golden light. For a moment it seemed as if the entire hall pulsed with the radiance. The candidates stared wide-eyed; some instinctively shrank back into their seats, others tightened their grip on the armrests. A chill crawled down Anton’s spine.

  From the golden light, a shape slowly unfurled. A shadow twisted first, then spread into a human form — tall and slender, but not frail; poised like a warrior or a king on a throne. His clothing was made of strips of fabric in shades of violet and white, though these “rags” did not look poor — they resembled ancient robes that had endured centuries, heavy with symbols and invisible power. His body was adorned with jewelry — gold and silver, thick and massive, chains across his chest, wide rings around his wrists and fingers, ornaments that rustled as if they breathed.

  And above all — his hair. Long and golden, like liquid light, cascading over his shoulders and back, catching every shard of the projector’s glow. His smile was sharp and discerning — the expression of a being who knew he was feared, and enjoyed it. The hall brightened with his presence, as if the walls themselves absorbed and reflected his power. The space seemed smaller, compressed beneath his gaze.

  People swallowed hard; some shifted nervously in their seats. Anton realized he was breathing shallowly, struggling not to look away. Fear coiled within him — and something akin to awe.

  With every gaze locked on the relic and the being emerging from it, time in the hall felt suspended. Kai stood unmoving, tall and radiant, his demonic smile splitting the silence in two. The candidates dared not blink, as if any motion might draw his attention.

  Hannah kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, her hand still resting over the medallion pulsing with golden light. The collective breath of the crowd blended into a single, trembling hush.

  She slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze was clear as glass.

  Her words fell quietly, yet they carried the weight of stone.

  “Leonid will assign you to teams. Good luck.”

  The hall remained illuminated by Kai’s presence — but what now hung in the air was fear.

  And the beginning.

  The candidates rose one by one and descended the steps toward the center, like a procession walking down into the unknown. Anton joined the line, feeling each step reverberate through his body. The chatter from the upper rows had faded; now there was only the rustle of paper, the squeak of shoes, and the quiet breathing of people pressing forward one after another.

  On the podium, beside the table, Leonid stood with a folder and a box in his hands. To each candidate he first offered the box, from which they drew small slips of paper, and then a sheet to sign. The motion was routine — but his gaze was sharp, filled with something that tightened Anton’s throat.

  When it was finally Anton’s turn, he lifted his eyes. His gaze met Leonid’s.

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  They weren’t ordinary eyes — they were a deep green abyss. In that brief moment, Anton felt as though he wasn’t looking at a man, but at a witness to wars and missions that ground people into dust. He wondered what those eyes remembered — and whether he was only another face that would vanish from them.

  Leonid held out the box and said, flatly, without emotion,

  “Go on. Draw a slip. That’s your team number.”

  Anton slid his hand into the box. The little papers whispered under his fingers, cold and dry as a doomed lot. He pulled one out and clenched it in his fist. When he unfolded it, it read: 8.

  He started to move away, but Leonid’s voice cut through his motion.

  “Wait. Sign this.”

  A sheet of paper was set in front of him. Anton looked down and for a second didn’t understand what he was seeing. Then his eyes caught the small print along the margin, and it struck like a blow:

  The State bears no responsibility in the event of loss of life during testing.

  He swallowed. His hand shook as he took the pen. At the bottom of the page he signed his name in black ink, as if writing his own fate.

  Anton passed through a narrow door and found himself in a vast control room. The walls were covered in screens showing different angles of the building prepared for the test: corridors under cold neon light, stairwells, darkened rooms, empty windows. On every monitor, a small red time counter flickered. The clatter of keyboards and the low hum of machines filled the air.

  At the main console crowded with monitors and controls sat Hannah and Leonid. Hannah, upright and composed, watched the screens with her hands folded on her knees. Leonid lounged back, tapping at a keyboard with idle fingers, muttering something under his breath.

  The candidates who hadn’t gone yet sat on a row of benches behind them. The atmosphere was taut; everyone watched the monitors, but also watched one another, as if the room itself were already a training ground.

  Anton moved slowly, searching for familiar signs. It didn’t take long — he pulled out the paper marked 8 and lifted it subtly, like a signal.

  “Hey — you’re Eight?” a broader young man called out, with short dark hair and a scar across his chin.

  “I’m Viktor.”

  His voice was rough, but steady.

  Beside him sat a petite girl — almost fragile at first glance — with a dark braid and glasses that kept sliding down her nose.

  “Sofia,” she said softly, but with resolve.

  The third was a pale boy with dark circles under his eyes. He bit his nail nervously and bounced his leg.

  “Marko,” he muttered, then quickly added, “I’m good with electronics, if we need it.”

  The last was a taller girl with red hair tied in a ponytail, carrying herself like an athlete. She crossed her arms and introduced herself curtly.

  “Elena.”

  Her gaze moved over them as if already deciding who was useful — and who was dead weight.

  Anton nodded. “Anton.”

  For a moment they held one another’s eyes. There was no friendship in that exchange — only the sense of necessary alliance.

  “Good,” Viktor murmured. “If we’re going to die, at least we’ll know each other’s names.”

  Marko gave a short laugh, more nervous than genuine. Elena only shrugged.

  Just then, the screens flickered. In the upper left corner, a label appeared: TEAM 1. Cameras followed five candidates as they entered through massive metal doors into the building from the plan. The red timer on-screen began counting down:

  30:00

  Complete silence fell over the room.

  Anton clenched his fists without realizing it and glanced at the number on his slip. Eight looked like infinity — he wondered what that might mean for him.

  The candidates in the room held their breath as the camera feed shifted — now showing a corridor washed in neon light. The five moved in perfect formation.

  A large man led with his pistol angled low, and the others followed behind, covering one another’s blind spots. Every step was quiet, deliberate. When they reached a hallway intersection, the leader’s hand snapped up in a signal, and the others obeyed without a single spoken word.

  Anton felt his heart hammer as he watched their precision. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen.

  “These ones know what they’re doing,” Marko murmured, his nail already chewed down to blood.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Elena snapped, her voice more steel than words. “It’s not about the beginning… it’s about the end.”

  Viktor leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Look at their shoulders,” he whispered. “Not one of them is shaking.”

  Anton swallowed hard, wondering whether his own shoulders would hold under that kind of pressure.

  On-screen, Team 1 halted before a closed door. One of them pulled out a device like a handheld scanner and pressed it to the wall. The camera zoomed in on the data — black lines mapping the room’s structure.

  “There’s something in there,” someone in the control room breathed — not from Anton’s team, but the voice was a whisper, as if spirits could hear through the screen.

  The team took positions: two to the left and right of the door, one crouched, the remaining two with weapons ready. At a hand signal, the door opened.

  The image swung — the room was wider than the corridor, the walls bare, and in the center a metal table. On it: the bomb. The digital clock counted down with cold indifference:

  24:18… 24:17… 24:16…

  But that wasn’t what froze Anton’s blood.

  On the table, as if it were the most comfortable seat in the world, sat Kai. Gold and silver chains shimmered under the neon lights; ornaments rustled when his fingers touched the metal with lazy indifference. He sat with his head tilted, chin resting on a bent knee, while his other leg swung idly over the edge of the table. When the first silhouettes appeared in the doorway, he straightened only enough to show them he had noticed. A wide smile stretched across his face, as if he were genuinely entertained.

  “He’s sitting beside the bomb,” Marko murmured, his voice trembling.

  Team 1 reacted fast. The leader raised a hand — a signal — and two metal spheres rolled across the floor. A heartbeat later, smoke filled the room.

  On-screen, everything blurred. The cameras caught only shapes. The five candidates moved through the smoke — precise, synchronized, chaining hand signals together. Two dropped low to cover corners. A third kept eyes on the bomb. The fourth and fifth covered the doorway.

  “Smart,” Sofia whispered, even though her voice was thin.

  Kai didn’t move. He simply sat there, tapping a foot lightly against the table as if keeping time. Then, as the smoke thickened, he drew in a sudden breath. On-screen, the cloud folded into him — vanished in a single inhale. The room cleared. Everything was visible again.

  Anton felt his stomach turn.

  He’s playing with them, he thought, staring at Kai’s golden hair — shining like a beacon in the sterile white of the room.

  On the screen, the candidates of Team 1 took their positions. Two opened fire, bullets tearing through the room. Bursts flashed like a storm, and the sound of gunfire echoed through the hall’s speakers.

  Kai didn’t even try to move.

  His body jerked with each impact — bullets ripping into his chest, his stomach, even his forehead. His golden hair swayed as he fell backward across the table, like an ordinary man struck dead.

  The entire hall exhaled in unison.

  Tension shattered for a heartbeat; some even called out, almost believing the test was over.

  One member of Team 1, a younger man, rushed forward and grabbed the bomb. His fingers trembled as his eyes flicked over the timer: 22:41… 22:40…

  When he lifted his head, he froze.

  Kai was still sprawled across the table — but his body shuddered. Then, slowly, as if waking from sleep, he rose. Blood dripped from his mouth, but he only smiled, baring bloody teeth. A moment later, a harsh metallic cough tore from his throat.

  Kai spat out the bullets.

  Tiny pieces of lead clattered onto the table, ringing cold against the metal.

  “My turn,” he said, his voice rippling through the room as if coming from every direction at once.

  With a flick of his wrist, the bullets he’d expelled shot upward — faster than when they had first been fired. As if propelled now by invisible rifles.

  On the screen it was unmistakable: they buried themselves straight into the hearts of the five candidates.

  They didn’t even have time to scream.

  A dead silence fell over the room.

  Anton forgot to breathe. His hands shook. His stomach told him he had never seen death this close — and that his own might be coming soon.

  Leonid choked lightly on a sip of coffee from his paper cup. A bead of the dark liquid slid down his chin, but he wiped it away with his sleeve.

  He glanced at Hannah, seated beside him in a black leather chair. Her hand partly covered her face, fingers resting on her forehead. She shook her head gently.

  “Kai is as merciless as ever,” Leonid muttered casually.

  Hannah exhaled and nodded without speaking. Leonid offered her the pack of cigarettes. She lowered her gaze to the box, then lifted her eyes to him and sighed again — this time with a quiet, barely audible, “Thanks.”

  He smiled sincerely.

  He took a lighter from his inner pocket and, without hurry, lit her cigarette. The flame flashed in her eyes before she took a drag and leaned back, smoke drifting upward toward the ceiling.

  Leonid turned his chair, pushed off with his legs, and the wheels squealed as he rolled toward the benches of candidates.

  “Team Two,” he said — his voice cutting through the room like a command.

  A wave of whispers swept over the hall. Someone cursed under their breath, someone else let out a nervous laugh that died immediately. The candidates stared at the screens, stiff, as if they had just been shot.

  “Five… in a second,” Viktor murmured, running a hand across the scar on his chin.

  Sofia pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze. Marko kept biting his nail, the skin already raw and stinging. Elena didn’t take her eyes off Kai on the screen; she looked like she was studying every movement, but her gaze was frozen.

  Anton felt only a weight in his chest.

  The thought echoed: This isn’t a test — it’s a slaughter.

  The monitors shifted. A new group of five rose from the benches and made their way toward the metal doors. The doors closed behind them with a metallic thud. The countdown appeared again: 30:00.

  Heavy silence filled the room.

  Team 2 appeared on the screens. They moved quickly — less synchronized than the previous team, but determined. They entered the first hallway, then the second, weapons ready.

  “Too loud,” Elena muttered, eyes glued to the monitor.

  They never even reached the bomb room.

  The door ahead of them slammed shut as if the wall itself had swallowed it.

  The cameras flickered, then displayed darkness — a shadow writhing across the ceiling.

  A scream blasted through the speakers — high, sharp, abruptly cut off.

  The next moment, four bodies crashed to the floor like rags.

  The fifth hung upside down, wrapped in a chain.

  The chain tightened — and the body crumpled in silence.

  The hall filled with a collective inhale.

  Some candidates lowered their eyes, others went rigid.

  Anton’s hands were trembling.

  Marko muttered through clenched teeth,

  “Two teams, ten dead… and it hasn’t even started.”

  Sofia closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if in prayer.

  Leonid stubbed out his cigarette and said coldly,

  “Team Three.”

  The screens showed one team after another.

  Each group entered with determination — and exited only one way: in the silence of death.

  Team 3 — tried shields and grenades, but the walls swallowed them; the cameras showed only scattered body parts.

  Team 4 — reached the bomb, but Kai seemed to wave his hand and their weapons exploded in their own grip, turning them into ash.

  Team 5 — ran fast, panicked.

  One managed to touch the bomb’s keypad before the entire room collapsed on them. All crushed.

  The atmosphere in the hall was unbearable.

  Candidates shifted, whispered prayers, or stared blankly. Anton felt his stomach twist as he watched the numbers climb: ten, fifteen, twenty dead — all before his eyes.

  Halfway through, Leonid leaned back in his chair, blowing out smoke.

  In a leisure tone he commented,

  “We should really use Nyx next time. Less blood to mop up.”

  Hannah only shrugged, but nodded in agreement. Then added quietly,

  “Kai would be furious if he found out.”

  Leonid laughed.

  "Then we'd better not tell him."

  They kept watching — without blinking.

  Team 6 — tried coordination, silent and precise. Kai let them get close, allowed them to touch the bomb. Then the lights above shattered, and darkness swallowed them whole.

  Team 7 — the cameras showed all of them thrown to the ground. Kai walked among them this time, lazy steps, then strangled each one with his bare hands. The camera captured every fading grimace, while his smile never changed.

  Anton couldn’t look away, though he wanted to.

  His fingers cramped around the crumpled paper with the number 8.

  Leonid’s voice cut through the room again — icy and merciless.

  “Team Eight. Your turn.”

  For a moment, Anton heard only the echo inside his own chest, his heartbeat pounding like a hammer. He looked at the paper crushed in his palm — the number 8 nearly imprinted into his skin.

  Viktor stood first.

  He rose firmly, shoulders stiff, adjusting his jacket.

  “Come on. No turning back,” he said through clenched teeth, though his eyes were more serious than ever.

  Sofia rose slowly.

  Marko shot to his feet and instantly dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” he muttered, but no one responded.

  His hands searched for his pockets to hide in.

  Elena stood last. Her movement was calm, controlled — but her eyes were ice. She stared straight at the screen where Kai still stood, his smile bright, hair glowing under neon light.

  “Luck has nothing to do with this,” she said flatly.

  Anton rose with them. His knees trembled, but he forced himself to step forward. His gaze swept over the faces of his team. They were strangers — and now their lives were tied together in the same deadly game.

  As the five of them stepped out from the crowd, the other candidates watched in silence.

  There were no whispers, no encouragement.

  Only stares — full of fear, with a quiet relief that it wasn’t their turn.

  Anton took a deep breath.

  Now it’s our turn.

  The doors of the testing grounds opened with a metallic groan, and the camera caught the five of them as they stepped inside. Their names vanished; now they were simply Team 8. The sound of the countdown immediately filled the room through the speakers.

  30:00… 29:59… 29:58…

  Anton felt his stomach tighten with that rhythm, as if his heart were beating in the same measure. The walls were bare, white, and every step of their boots echoed through the emptiness. Viktor took the lead, moving low, his gun angled toward the floor but ready. He would occasionally raise a hand, signaling the others. Sofia stayed close beside him, her eyes scanning the walls. Marko walked in the back. His breathing was clearly audible — faster than the rest. Elena covered their rear, her movements cold and methodical, like someone who had practiced this hundreds of times.

  Anton walked in the middle, listening for every sound. Each hand gesture traveled down the line — stop, move, turn. He felt sweat gathering on his palms, but his grip on the weapon didn’t loosen. Cameras tracked them from multiple angles. One from above — five dark figures moving in formation. Another from the corner of the hallway — their faces half in shadow, eyes constantly shifting. A third from farther down — capturing them as they disappeared deeper into the maze.

  The countdown hammered in all of their ears:

  29:12… 29:11… 29:10…

  Anton’s eyes swept the empty walls of the corridor, but his mind wasn’t on the present — it was on what he had seen earlier on the projector. The map of the building. Floors flashing on the white screen, marked with black lines, dots for entrances and exits. Room dimensions. He tried to summon every frame of it.

  The first hallway goes straight… then right… two doors… one to an empty office, the other to the stairs…

  He breathed deeply, evenly, as if memory alone could keep him steady.

  He recalled the image of the bomb too — the close-up on the screen: the wiring, the digital clock, the inner scanner. And Leonid’s words:

  “Your goal is to deactivate the bomb and stay alive.”

  But one scene returned to him more than anything —

  Kai sitting on the table beside the bomb, golden hair, chains shining under neon, wearing a devil’s smile.

  Anton knew: none of the previous teams had gotten close enough. They rushed in, fired, panicked — and died.

  Maybe we shouldn’t fight him… Maybe we need to get around him. Or deceive him. If there’s a way.

  His eyes flashed as he remembered one detail from the projector: a ventilation shaft, marked by a thin line on the map. It was located in the room next to the one with the bomb. Anton clenched his jaw.

  If we can get through it… maybe someone could get to the bomb before Kai notices.

  He glanced at his teammates. Viktor was focused, Sofia terrified, Marko trembling, Elena ice-cold. They didn’t look like people ready to trust improvisation. But he knew he had to try.

  He took a breath and whispered quietly,

  “Wait… remember the presentation? The room to the left of the bomb had a ventilation shaft. Almost invisible, but it was there. If one of us can crawl through, they might reach the bomb from the other side… maybe before Kai notices.”

  Viktor turned his head toward him, eyes narrowing.

  “You’re saying we sneak around the entity? Like he’ll just let us walk past him.”

  His voice was firm, but he didn’t reject the idea immediately. Sofia nodded quickly — almost too quickly.

  “No, he’s right. Everyone so far went straight at him… maybe that’s the only way.”

  Her hands were trembling, but there was a spark of hope in her eyes. Marko shook his head, his voice gritty.

  “The vent? What are we, kids crawling around in ducts? If he catches us in there, we’re dead before we can turn around.”

  Elena had been walking behind them the whole time, covering their rear. When she spoke, her voice was cold.

  “There are no bad ideas until we’re dead.”

  She looked straight at Anton. “You remember this clearly?”

  Anton nodded, unconsciously tightening his grip on the paper with the number eight.

  “I’m sure.”

  Viktor let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

  “Fine… if we get to that room, we’ll see. If it’s there, maybe we’ve got a chance.”

  Anton nodded, swallowing hard.

  The hallway ended at a massive metal door. Viktor raised his fist and they all stopped. He pushed the door open slightly, and the camera showed an empty office. The walls were bare, tables and chairs stacked along the edges, as if forgotten long ago. The neon lights flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

  Anton stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the wall to the left of the entrance. His heart jumped — it was there. A rectangular opening, barely wider than a person’s shoulders, covered with a thin mesh.

  The ventilation shaft.

  “There it is,” he whispered in disbelief.

  Sofia approached and brushed her hand along the frame.

  “Wide enough for someone to fit…”

  Viktor frowned.

  “And narrow enough for us to get stuck if something goes wrong.”

  Marko was already shaking his head, sweat dripping down his temples.

  “No, no, no way. If we see him inside — if he figures out what we’re doing — we’re dead before we can blink.”

  “We’re dead anyway if we don’t try,” Elena said calmly.

  Her eyes stayed fixed on the opening, her voice steady and without a hint of doubt.

  Viktor turned toward them, cutting off the argument with a whisper.

  “The question is… who’s going?”

  They all looked at one another — but no one spoke.

  The silence in the room was heavier than the metal surrounding them.

  Anton felt a knot tightening in his throat.

  His eyes drifted from the shaft, to his hands, then back again.

  “I’ll go,” he said — steady and determined as he could manage.

  Sofia immediately shook her head.

  “No, Anton—”

  “My idea,” he cut her off, fists tightening. “If someone has to take the risk, it’s me.”

  Viktor studied him for a few seconds, eyes narrowed, then gave a short nod.

  “Fine. If it works, we might have a chance.”

  Marko muttered something under his breath, but didn’t dare voice it.

  Elena simply crossed her arms and said,

  “Good luck.”

  They didn’t waste any more time. Viktor gave a signal, and the four of them continued straight down the main corridor leading to the bomb room. Their footsteps faded into the distance.

  Anton stayed behind, alone.

  His heart hammered so loudly he was certain the cameras could record it. He knelt in front of the ventilation opening and gripped the mesh with both hands. He pulled — the metal gave a quiet screech, then loosened.

  Crawling into the narrow space, he felt cold air streaming through the ducts. His hands slid along dusty edges, his shoulders barely fitting through. The countdown still rang in his head, following him like a shadow. He moved forward slowly, each motion drawing him deeper into the claustrophobic dark of the vent. His breathing was short and shallow. In his mind he saw Kai seated beside the bomb — and every team before them dropping in an instant.

  I can’t make a mistake. If I can get through, maybe I’ll have a chance to get around him…

  A grated vent cover appeared ahead of him. Beyond it, he could make out a faint wash of light — and hear deep laughter.

  Anton knew he’d arrived.

  Viktor was the first to step through the doorway into the room. Sofia followed, then Marko and Elena — pistols held low, but fingers tight on the triggers.

  In the middle of the room, the bomb was still counting down, numbers glowing coldly:

  23:21… 23:20… 23:19…

  Beside it, as if he had always been there, sat Kai. Elbow braced on his knee, he watched them the way a teacher watches children who have wandered into his classroom. His smile showed too many teeth.

  Viktor shot Elena a glance — a brief hand signal. Without a word, she pulled a small cylindrical smoke canister from her belt and threw it to the floor. Smoke spread instantly, thick and gray, swallowing the room.

  Through the grate, Anton saw Kai tilt his head — then expand his lungs. He inhaled the smoke deeply, as if breathing in the scent of wine.

  “How sweet,” he murmured, his smile widening, his eyes lighting with a pale flame. “Humans truly never learn from other people’s mistakes.”

  For a moment Viktor and the others moved fast, taking positions around the bomb. Anton’s heartbeat climbed into his throat.

  Now… now is my chance.

  While Kai still lingered in his own performance, Anton slowly pressed against the grated cover. The metal gave with a barely audible click, and he slipped inside in silence, sliding like a shadow.

  Viktor surged first, coiled like a spring. He charged straight at Kai — shoulder forward, hands ready to knock him off the table. Elena was at his side, a knife flashing in her grip.

  Kai smiled.

  The instant Viktor jumped, Kai simply turned, placed a hand on Viktor’s chest, and shoved him.

  The sound cracked through the room like splintering wood. Viktor’s body folded backward and hit the floor like a rag doll, air gone.

  Elena tried to use the opening — her blade flashed, aimed for Kai’s throat. But Kai caught her wrist, and with his other hand he touched a single finger to her forehead.

  A moment later, Elena dropped without a sound, eyes wide open and empty.

  Marko screamed and opened fire. Bursts tore into Kai’s torso. Kai staggered once — then smiled, blood sliding down his lips. He stepped forward, pushed a finger into the barrel of Marko’s weapon—

  The next shot fired, and the gun exploded in Marko’s hands.

  His scream cut through the room as he vanished into a cloud of smoke and blood.

  Sofia was the last one left. She dropped to her knees, arms reaching for the bomb, desperately searching for the wires she had seen on the projector.

  Kai approached her lazily.

  “Interesting,” he murmured— and in an instant wrapped a chain around her throat. He pulled, with one hand, and her neck broke quietly, without a word.

  Anton watched it all from behind the bomb, curled tight. His hands trembled, but he remained unseen as Kai moved from victim to victim.

  Within seconds, it was over.

  Viktor lay twisted. Elena stared motionless at the ceiling. Marko was blood. Sofia was still on her knees, folded forward helplessly.

  Kai dusted off his hands, like a man finishing a dull task, and sat again on the edge of the table.

  Anton was alone.

  In the room of screens, the atmosphere was thicker than the smoke still drifting in the test chamber. The candidates sat rigid, eyes wide. Some covered their mouths; others were pale as the walls. Whispers broke into fractured voices:

  “They’re all dead… again…”

  “No one can survive…”

  “Why don’t they just send us home…”

  In the middle of that chaos, the door opened — and Hannah walked in. In her hands she carried a delivery bag, warm spice and rice rising from it. Completely calm, as if nothing had happened, she set it on the table, pulled out plastic containers, and handed the first to Leonid.

  “Chicken and pineapple in sweet-and-spicy sauce,” she said flatly, pressing it into his hand.

  Leonid didn’t even blink. He stared at the screen, his fork still unused. Hannah glanced at him, then turned her own gaze to the recording.

  On the monitor — Team 8’s bodies lay torn and ruined, and beside the bomb, a single step away from Kai, stood a young man. Blond hair, clear eyes, rigid as a statue.

  Hannah’s hand paused for a moment.

  “Who is that?”

  Leonid flipped through papers, searching with his fingers for a name and a photograph. He found it.

  “Anton Smederev.”

  Their eyes met — only a second, but enough for each of them to read the same question in the other’s gaze. Hannah turned back to the screen and, with her right hand, brushed the medallion on her chest, pressing it lightly as if checking her own pulse. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, exhaled deeply, then opened them again.

  Without further comment, she returned to the bag and took out her own container. She opened it, scooped rice with a fork, and brought the bite to her mouth. Leonid did the same. Soon they were both eating — calm, routine — while the candidates behind them remained numb in front of the horror on the screen.

  Kai sat like a king on his cold metal throne, elbow on his knee, hair falling in golden cascades across his face. Suddenly, he spread his arms like a man stretching after sitting too long. He rose, his jewelry clinking in the half-light, and stepped forward, deeper into the room — as if taking a stroll among the dead bodies he had just left behind.

  In that moment, Anton almost forgot how to breathe. His heart slammed against his temples, but he knew one thing:

  There was no time to wait.

  He moved forward, step by step. His knees buckled, but his legs didn’t stop. He reached the bomb. The metal casing was cold beneath his fingers, and the numbers glowed red, counting down without mercy. His eyes traveled over the wires: red, blue, green, yellow.

  The memory of the projection surged through him — the schematic they had shown them on the screen.

  “Calm down… calm down…” he whispered to himself, hands shaking.

  Kai, meanwhile, drifted farther away, unhurried, stepping over corpses as if they were leaves on the ground. His attention was elsewhere, but Anton knew — one wrong sound could give him away.

  Anton drew a deep breath, tightened his grip on the cutters they’d given them for the test, and placed them on the first wire.

  Calm down. Focus. It isn’t over while you’re still breathing.

  His hands trembled as the cutters slid onto the thin green wire. His vision blurred for a moment — flashes: Viktor’s body snapped, Elena’s dead eyes, Marko’s scream, Sofia’s neck in Kai’s cold hands.

  They were all dead.

  Only he remained.

  Why me?

  He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and cut.

  The counter flickered.

  The red light went out.

  Anton released a breath he’d held too long. His hands loosened, and his whole body shook with relief — and disbelief.

  Then he felt it.

  A weight in the air. A shadow sinking into his bones.

  He lifted his head.

  At the far end of the room, Kai stood perfectly still. Slowly, he turned his head over his shoulder, as if he had always known Anton was there. His eyes weren’t eyes — only two dark abysses, empty and endless. He stared without surprise, without anger.

  Then, very slowly, his lips pulled into a smile. Kai inclined his head, slightly — as if greeting him.

  Anton froze. His heart pounded in his throat, but he knew one thing:

  He was the only one who had passed the test.

  The door opened with a metallic creak. Anton stepped inside, his face pale, his eyes wide, his shoulders heavy as if he were carrying the whole world. Dust from the ventilation shaft still clung to his arms, and the smell of smoke and blood lingered in his nose.

  The candidates fell silent.

  All eyes turned toward him.

  The two teams that remained greeted him with brief nods — and for a moment, a spark of hope crossed their faces.

  If he made it… maybe they could too.

  But those looks mixed with others.

  Hard, disdainful.

  As if Anton’s success was an insult, something they weren’t ready to accept — that a single boy had survived while his entire team had fallen.

  Anton said nothing. He simply walked past them, sat down on the bench, and lowered his gaze to the floor, feeling the weight of the silence pressing on his back.

  Leonid, meanwhile, merely shifted in his chair, a fork in his hand, his mouth full of sweet-and-spicy chicken.

  “Team Nine,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by a bite.

  Hannah calmly opened her second box of food, unconcerned with the ripple of unease passing through the candidates.

  On the screens, the counter reset to 30:00.

  The doors opened.

  Team 9 — their breathing was louder, sharper, but hope flickered in their eyes. Anton’s survival echoed in their minds.

  “Check the ventilation,” someone said on the recording — a tense but determined voice.

  The camera showed them removing the grate, just as Anton had. One of them slipped inside while the others waited outside.

  He didn’t make it halfway through the tunnel.

  The metal glowed red-hot, the grate lit up like a furnace, and then the entire opening — and the person inside — erupted in a burst of internal fire.

  His scream ended in a second.

  The remaining four staggered back, but before they could react, Kai was already there. His necklaces flashed — and all five candidates became nothing more than new bodies on the ground.

  The screen showed only an empty corridor and the smoldering ash drifting from the vent.

  Team 10 — their footsteps echoed as if carrying the weight of every fallen team before them. One threw a smoke bomb; another tried to copy the formation they’d seen Team 8 use.

  It didn’t help them.

  Kai didn’t even move from his place.

  He simply clapped his hands once — like a man ending a concert.

  The walls of the chamber shuddered, the doors slammed shut, and all the candidates screamed at once. Their bodies were lifted from the floor by an unseen force — and in the next instant, thrown back down into a bloody mosaic across the tiles.

  The hall was silent.

  Leonid leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms high, then let them fall to his sides. He stood slowly, as if nothing that had happened in the past hours concerned him.

  “We could visit that new place with pancakes,” he said, stretching his back.

  Hannah nodded, but her eyes didn’t leave Anton.

  He sat alone on the bench. His hands trembled, his gaze fixed on the floor beneath his feet. In his fist he crushed the slip with the number 8, the paper already torn along the edges. He only flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  He looked up slowly, his eyes unfocused, as if only now returning to reality.

  “Mr. Smederev,” Leonid said loudly, and Anton met his gaze.

  Those eyes were cold and deep, and the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke drifted from Leonid’s breath.

  “Congratulations. You passed the test. Welcome to the Amber Directorate.”

  Leonid’s eyes vanished beneath lowered lids as he smiled broadly, patting Anton on the shoulder like an old friend before walking away without a backward glance.

  Hannah approached and placed a folder in Anton’s hands. Her leather gloves creaked as she loosened her grip, leaving it to him.

  “Read this. We’ll see you on Monday.”

  Anton took it with unsteady hands, clutching the folder to his chest like the only anchor he had left. His gaze slid over the cover: an engraved fox’s head, and below it, in letters shifting between gold and amber tones: Amber Directorate

  Hannah Adler & Leonid Frost

  The afternoon air greeted Hannah cold and clean, but she felt her lungs still heavy with what she’d left behind. Leonid stood leaning against her car, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around his face.

  She walked toward him slowly — when suddenly an arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  The scent of gold and dust closed in a moment before she heard the sharp, familiar voice.

  “Enjoyed yourself?”

  She didn’t even lift her gaze. She only sighed and tapped her fingers twice against the medallion at her neck.

  “Kai… get back in the relic, please.”

  He didn’t disappear.

  Instead, he stepped in front of her, tall and proud, his hair shining brighter than the sun above them. He lowered his forehead to hers, his eyes empty and eerily calm.

  “Are we going home?” he asked quietly, like a child seeking reassurance.

  Hannah shoved him away — like pushing aside a doll, not a man. She met his gaze directly, her voice even, untouched by emotion.

  “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  There was no accusation in her words — only curiosity.

  Kai shrugged, the chains around him jingling with the motion.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t even see him.”

  Hannah shook her head slowly, like a mother who knows her child is lying but is too tired to argue.

  “Relic. Now.”

  She tapped the medallion again.

  This time, Kai exhaled loudly, smiling like someone agreeing to a game only because he must — and then his body dissolved into light, pulling itself back into the gold of the medallion.

  Leonid glanced at the medallion still faintly glowing on Hannah’s neck. Smoke drifted from his mouth in short clouds, breaking apart in the cold air. He dropped his cigarette to the asphalt and crushed it beneath his boot.

  “What’s Kai saying?” he asked, his voice deep and rough from smoke.

  Hannah was already digging through her bag for the car keys.

  “Nothing serious. Same as always.”

  The metal keys jingled as her fingers found their familiar weight.

  Leonid remained in the shadows, his shoulders relaxed, but his gaze distant, thoughtful — as if seeing something no one else could.

  “What could he have seen in that boy…” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  Hannah opened the driver’s door, the car’s interior light briefly illuminating her face. Her eyes were cold, reflecting nothing but focus and intention.

  “We’ll find out on Monday,” she said calmly, and closed the door behind her.

  The sound was soft, but final.

  Leonid cast one last look at the empty street — the gray asphalt marked by cold stains and shadows — then bent down and slipped into the passenger seat. He settled in like a man returning to routine after finishing a job.

  “Pancakes?” he asked, raising his gaze to her from beneath half-lowered lids.

  Hannah gave him a brief glance, then nodded, turned the key, and the engine hummed to life. Leonid rested his hand on the armrest and stretched out his legs, the smell of smoke still clinging to his clothes.

  Without a word, Hannah shifted into gear.

  The car glided forward, and their departure was as quiet — and as cold — as everything they had left behind.