The morning greeted Mark with a headache and a strange premonition. He woke up in his small apartment, where the first rays of the sun were shining through the curtains. However, instead of the usual feeling of cheerfulness, he felt a heaviness in his temples and a vague uneasiness, as if something important was slipping away from him.
All through the night, he had confused dreams that left a sense of unease and mystery in their wake. In these dreams, he wandered through endless underground corridors, the walls of which were covered with ancient symbols and mysterious signs. The dim light of old photographs hung on the walls illuminated his path, but their images were blurry and indecipherable, as if someone had tried to erase them from his memory.
In these dreams, Kismet's silver ring constantly appeared. It was unusual, with an intricate pattern, and it seemed to have some sort of magical power. At some point, the ring began to slowly transform into a snake. The snake was graceful and dangerous, its scales glistening in the dim light, and its eyes glittering with green fire. She wrapped her arms around his heart, and Mark felt a cold fear creep over him.
When he awoke, he couldn't shake the feeling that this dream wasn't just a figment of his imagination. Mark decided that today he would definitely take the time to understand what was behind these strange visions.
The Nikon F3 film camera, a faithful companion to many investigations, fit into Mark's bag as usual. This camera has been with him for many years, capturing the most important moments of his career. He remembered the first time he'd used it in his first big case, and he'd been using it ever since.
Mark paused for a moment in front of the small home safe, wondering if he should bring a dictaphone. It was an old habit he'd picked up early in his career, when he'd learned how important it was to capture every word in meetings. The dictaphone was a small, almost invisible, but priceless tool. In the end, he decided it was best to play it safe and carefully put it in the inside pocket of his coat.
Before leaving the house, Mark remembered the strange message he had received the night before from an unknown number. He didn't have time to open the message, but in the instant the notification popped up, he quickly understood its motive: warning and threatening. Deciding that he would ask Kismet about him when they met, he packed up everything he needed, took one last look around the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and left the house.
Yaroslavsky Railway station was buzzing like a disturbed hive. People were hurrying in different directions, creating the hustle and bustle typical of the morning rush hour. The ride seemed to be the focus of everyone's attention, and there was something both exciting and exhausting about the chaos.
Kismet was waiting for him by the ancient clock that towered over the crowd like silent witnesses to past eras. She looked majestic and mysterious, like the heroine of a noir film that had passed from the screen into reality. Her dark coat fluttered in the wind, making her look like a mysterious stranger. Mark, seeing her from afar, slowed his pace. He couldn't help but admire the way the morning sun played through her hair, turning it a golden hue. The light created a halo around her that made her stand out from the crowd, making her look even more attractive and mysterious.
Mark stepped closer and saw a flicker of concern in Kismet's eyes that seemed to reflect his own feelings. They greeted each other dryly and headed for the platform.
The train swayed steadily as it slid along the tracks, taking them away from the hustle and bustle of Moscow. Mark and Kismet sat facing each other at the window, where a monotonous, glass-framed picture of the suburbs unfolded-green carpets of fields and forests creating the illusion of limitless space. The morning mist that hadn't yet descended framed the occasional glimpse of houses in a ghostly haze.
"Tell me more about Vorontsov," Mark said, pulling out his battered notebook. — What else do you know about him?"
Kismet was momentarily distracted by the scenery outside the window.
"Mikhail Vorontsov," she said thoughtfully, almost in a whisper, " worked in the construction department from 1982 to 1991. He held the position of senior engineer for the reconstruction of basements. He retired after the collapse of the Soviet Union." — But something else is interesting. Before leaving, he requested copies of all plans for underground utilities in the Maroseyki area. Officially - for the archive. But the copies were never returned to the office."
— And you think he's discovered something?" Mark jotted down the information quickly.
"I'm sure. When I contacted him, he didn't want to talk at first. But then... she lowered her voice again, even though the car was almost empty,
— He said he had information that might change the way you think about the city's history. And that now it's time to reveal it, " Mark looked at Kismet carefully. In the morning light, her face looked particularly pale, and her eyes were unusually bright.
— Why now?" Why had he been silent all these years?
— He said he was waiting for the right moment. And the appearance of people who can be trusted with this information. Kismet pulled out her phone and showed Mark the map. — His house is located here, on the outskirts of Pushkino. Mark nodded, and the rest of the ride passed in silence, everyone lost in their own thoughts.
An hour later they were walking down a quiet street where old apple trees hung over sagging fences like sentinels, guardians of elusive secrets. Vorontsov's house appeared to them almost like its owner, like a cozy old man, it was a small one-story building with a green cap of moss on the roof and old window frames. Mark noticed that the gate was unlocked.
"Strange," he muttered. His journalistic instincts had sounded the alarm. They went up to the porch and Kismet knocked on the door. No one answered. She knocked again, harder. Silence.
"Are we early?" Mark suggested, but Kismet shook her head.
— We agreed on this time. He himself insisted on an early visit. -
Mark pushed the door open cautiously - it was unlocked and creaked open. The interior of the house was dim. The smell of old books mixed with something else.
"Michael?" Kismet called, stepping inside. — We had an appointment...
They entered a small living room that looked like a forgotten museum, where time stood still waiting for the magic touch. The first thing that caught my eye was the papers scattered everywhere. Old drawings, maps, and photographs that had already lost their original appearance were spreading across the floor like chalk lines on a blackboard
There was an untouched cup of cold tea on the table. And next to it...
"My God," Kismet breathed. A leather briefcase lay open on the floor beside him, some documents spilling out of it. On the wall above the desk was a large map of Moscow, covered with red markings. There was a hole in the center of the map, as if someone had ripped out an important piece in a hurry.
"He's not here," Mark said slowly, looking around the room with his professional gaze. "And apparently he left the house in a hurry."
Kismet picked up one of the tattered journals from which something had fallen. It turned out to be an old photograph of a group of people in construction uniforms standing at the entrance to a tunnel. On the back is an inscription in pencil: 1985. Entrance #7, Maroseyka. Depth of 27 meters. Strange signs were detected.
"Mark," her voice trembled, "look at this," Kismet handed him the photo, flipping through the pages covered with small handwriting, between the lines of which were sketches of strange symbols. - Here are the coordinates. And a diagram of the entrance through the basement of an old apartment building. We need to get there. Today. Kismet took a quick picture of the pages on her phone.
Mark ignored Kismet's words and studied the scattered documents. The room looked like someone was looking for something specific in a hurry. There were notes everywhere about some artifacts and symbols.
Kismet quickly gathered up the papers, putting them in her bag. Her movements were too confident for someone who was facing such a situation for the first time.
— We need to leave, " she said, pausing for a moment to glance at her watch as if it were a trap about to snap shut. — The main thing right now is to get to that basement in time.
"Why the rush?" Mark asked, his gaze sweeping over her with concern. He noticed that she had deftly hidden something in the pocket of her jacket that looked like secrets that should never be left on the surface. — And why today?"
- Today, planned work will be carried out in that area. It might be too late tomorrow, " she said, avoiding his gaze.
They left the house in silence and called a taxi on the way. Along the way, Kismet was constantly checking her phone, checking photos and documents. Mark noticed that her hands were shaking slightly, and her fears were hidden behind the fabric of her coat. The tremor reminded him of the flutter of a butterfly's wings, held in a hard hand, ready to break free.
Two hours later, they were standing at the nondescript basement door, modestly hidden in a narrow street between houses. The old house on Maroseyka kept its secrets behind peeling plaster and a rusty lock.
— Are you sure we can get there?" Mark pointed at the castle.
Kismet silently took out a bunch of keys, their metallic gleam faintly illuminating the murky air. — I've prepared myself, " she said, slowing down a little, as if she was aware that the air in this quiet place was filled with silent questions that had their proper place... relations in the construction department. These are duplicates.
As they opened the door, the cold air rushing into the basement was full of dampness. Their footsteps echoed in the empty basement. The beam of the flashlight picked out the outlines of old chimneys, broken bricks covered with a layer of dust, and cobwebs in the corners.
"According to the records, the passage should be..." Kismet said softly, checking the image on her phone screen, " behind this wall."
She began to examine the masonry, each brick frozen in the flow of time. Suddenly, Mark noticed faint symbols scratched into one of the bricks. "Look, Kismet! Just like in the diary, " he exclaimed, unable to hide his excitement.
Kismet, like a doctor checking the pulse of ancient times, traced the mysterious signs with her delicate fingers. There was a soft click, and a section of the wall slowly slid inward.
"Unbelievable," Mark whispered. Tension filled the air around him. The story itself began to come alive, offering a glimpse behind the veil.
They moved deeper into the narrow tunnel, which seemed not just a passage, but a living artery pulsing in the bowels of the earth. The damp walls reminded them of old wounds, the tears of time trickled down the cold stone, and the whole atmosphere added to the feeling that they had penetrated into the very soul of a forgotten world. The tunnel sloped down at a slight angle. After walking about fifty meters, Mark heard the first disturbing sound — a soft crackling sound above his head. Kismet stopped, too.
— We need to... he began, but his words were lost in the air as the whole thing suddenly came crashing down on them.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. First, a small crumb fell, as if an invisible, feverish underground beast was stirring. Then there was a deafening crash. Mark instinctively yanked Kismet back against the wall. A cloud of dust enveloped them, and when it cleared, they saw that the passage they had entered through was blocked by fallen rocks.
"Damn it! Mark swore, running up to the rubble.
"Calm down," Kismet said, her voice tight but confident. — There must be another way out. The records mention a whole network of tunnels.
Just then, something metallic slid out of her pocket. Mark caught a glimpse of the ancient locket glinting in the dim light of their lantern, covered in the same cryptic symbols that decorated the walls before she hurriedly picked it up.
At that moment, everything fell into place - her awareness of the dungeons, her confident actions, her haste, her strange behavior in Vorontsov's house. This was the beginning of a dangerous dance with mystery. She was clearly looking for something specific.
— Why are you actually here?" his question echoed through the cold tunnel. Mark looked her straight in the eye. — What are you looking for?"
In the dim light, he saw her face change. The mask of confidence she'd so carefully worn fell away, revealing something deep, personal, and painful that was meant for just one person. Kismet sighed, and her face, barely illuminated by the dim light of the flashlight, was particularly vulnerable in this remote, high space. She sank slowly to the cold, rocky floor of the tunnel, leaning against the wall. "My uncle... "He disappeared here three months ago," she began, " he was an archaeologist, investigating the ancient underground structures of Moscow. In his last letter, he wrote that he had discovered something incredible. Something to do with these symbols and ancient artifacts.
— And you're trying to find him?" Mark asked, confused by the reality before him.
But that's not all... she showed him the fallen locket. "It's the only thing I have left of him. An ancient medallion with the same symbols.
Mark looked at her carefully. In the dim light of the streetlamp, he saw for the first time not a mysterious stranger, but a person who was immersed in the deep darkness of the loss of a loved one, desperately walking through the maze of his grief in search of answers.
"Tell me everything," he said softly. "From the beginning.
And in the constant darkness of the underground tunnel, surrounded by ancient secrets and whispers of bygone eras, they began a long conversation that would change the two of them...