Kovel suburbs. Thursday, May 15, 2014. Early morning—5:45 AM.
I woke up before the alarm rang. This had lately become something natural—waking up every day as if by inertia. I stared mindlessly at the ceiling for five minutes, then finally got out of bed. With measured steps, I walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Need to wash up.
In the mirror reflected the cold light of LED lamps and my tired gaze.
"Soon," I said affirmatively to my reflection, as if trying to justify myself.
Returning to the kitchen, the kettle was just finishing boiling water. It was working on its last breath.
"You must be tired too, buddy," I thought.
After making coffee and heating up yesterday's food, I began breakfast. I still couldn't get used to the loneliness. The melancholy I wake up with daily since the "accident" that happened to Lia slowly eats me from the inside. It seems a little more—and those feelings that remain will disappear. But every morning I wake up with the bitter realization: I still feel. I'm alive. And she—is no longer. Or, would it be more accurate to say that I merely exist? I didn't think I'd ever try on the image of a "grieving parent."
After breakfast, I went for a walk—they say it's beneficial after eating. Movement stimulates the stomach and intestines, making food move faster, reduces risks, and blah-blah-blah. Actually, I just like walks, and that's it. For me, it's a way to clear my head, especially early in the morning when the city was still asleep and its noise couldn't be heard.
The morning was quiet—wind rustling in the tall grass, and birds occasionally calling to each other. The earth still held the night's coolness, and the air smelled of dampness and pines. I walked along the fence, past the bus stop and the old well. On the way back, I stopped at the gate. I raised my head: the sky was beginning to lighten, becoming pale blue, almost glassy. I took a deep breath.
Checkpoint of Facility "Kovel-1". Time—8:00 AM.
"Early, as always," Erwin stated.
Erwin Stem—former military, now head of the checkpoint at a secret government facility. To be fair, this is decent career growth. I'm sure they pay him well. Like everyone here. Silence has a high price.
"Good day, Erwin," I answered dryly.
"And to you, doc."
Sector 6, Facility "Kovel-1". Time—8:00 AM.
The elevator took me down to the third underground level—one of those where regular employees without clearance don't venture. The steel floor vibrated almost imperceptibly underfoot, somewhere deeper the isolation system filters hummed. The air here underwent three-stage purification and was sterile to the point of being cloying.
I walked the familiar route: through a long corridor with matte lamps. At the door to the laboratory section, the biometric scanner read my palm print and briefly beeped. The lock opened with a dull click. I entered.
The room greeted me with silence and even light, in which there were almost no shadows. On the central table stood an isolated container, sealed—with a substituted sample, identical in weight and shape, but completely harmless. Nearby—three terminals, each connected to its own security system. I walked past without touching any and sat at the desk.
I knew this morning would be one of the last in the usual routine. Too many coincidences, too many hints in the documentation, too sharp formulations in the reports that began arriving at night. Someone somewhere was hurrying, and I could only guess when exactly the order would be given to move to the next phase.
But guessing isn't my habit, everything is going according to plan. I'll definitely make it in time.
A request flashed on the screen—a notification from the security department. I opened it.
"Today at 10:30—meeting in the conference room. Urgency: high."
I looked at this message for a minute. High urgency? Why would they need to call me off schedule?
And yet I pressed: "Confirmed."
Leaving the laboratory, I froze for a moment in the corridor, then turned right—toward the technical node. Behind an inconspicuous door with a sign "Storage C-4. No unauthorized entry" was hidden my cache. The door unlocked with a characteristic click, the scanner recognized the fingerprint without failure. Inside—concrete walls, shelves with junk, a metal cabinet with backup equipment. And—between them, behind a ventilation panel—a compartment that isn't listed on any scheme.
There, in a protective case, the real sample was stored. A red ampoule in a transparent thermal container—"K-0." It pulsed in the dim light, as if breathing.
I ran my hand over the casing. Inside me boiled the same mixture of emotions: fear, disgust, and some strange, nauseating responsibility. I could no longer be part of what was happening.
The plan was simple. Or at least it sounded that way. Pass the sample to those who acted outside politics. To those who knew how to handle such things. We had already crossed paths—once, but that was enough for me to make a decision in their favor.
Lately, it increasingly seemed to me that I was suspected of something. Too intent stares, burning the back of my head.
I carefully closed the compartment, checked the latches, turned my head—no one. The camera in this corridor hadn't worked for a long time. I had "fixed" it myself.
Sector 1 (central), Facility "Kovel-1". Time—10:25 AM
Arriving in the main sector, I walked past the break room where three employees were discussing something, leaning over a tablet. Someone laughed loudly.
At the entrance to the conference room, they were already waiting for me: Lebedeva—strict, impeccably assembled, with a slight crease between her eyebrows. Behind her—two in black uniforms, from the security service. I nodded.
"Dr. Hansen, you are, as always, punctual," she said. "Come in. The matter is urgent."
I walked past. Only one thought pulsed in my head:
"They do know something after all."
And if so—there's almost no time left.
I entered the conference room, trying to maintain my usual expression—slightly tired, detached. I'd had time to train this state. For the past few weeks, I'd put it on every day like a lab coat.
Inside, everything looked standard: a long table, a screen on the wall, several tablets on stands, a glass carafe with water in which two identically cut lemon slices floated.
Lebedeva pointed me to a seat. I sat down.
The two in uniform remained by the wall, not saying a word. One of them—thin, with sharp features, the second—stocky, as if carved from a solid block. Both had equally empty eyes. They make good observers from such people. And executors.
I felt heat beginning to accumulate between my shoulder blades, and an invisible lump seemed stuck in my throat. The interface turned on the screen—blue background, yellow headers. Section: internal investigations.
So. That's it. Here it begins.
"Doctor," Lebedeva began, leafing through a report, "they want to talk to you about deviations in your section's work. Access protocols for the past few days, movements through the lower sectors and... activity in tech block C-4."
I looked at her. I held my gaze briefly, just enough so it wouldn't look like panic. But my heart inside was already beating as if it would jump out.
They found the cache. Or discovered the substitution. The camera was working after all? Someone reported. I made a mistake. This is the end.
"We checked the records for the last ten days," she continued, "and found that one of the reports lacks your confirmation. In form D-23, which should have been personally certified by the sector head."
I blinked. Once. Then a second time.
"Excuse me?" came out almost automatically.
"This is about the technical check of backup filtration in the third box. You're listed as responsible for the signed bypass, but the mark didn't appear in the system. We had to manually retrieve the logs."
Pause.
"So... you called me..." I raised my eyebrows slightly, "because of one unsigned bypass sheet?"
"Protocol is protocol," Lebedeva said dryly. "Given the current clearance level, the slightest deviations are subject to review. Especially before the imminent launch of the active phase."
She nodded to one of the employees, who stepped forward and placed a tablet in front of me.
"Sign now. And please, no such oversights in the future."
So that's how it is...
The tension that had been holding me for the last ten minutes slipped from my chest like steam from an open valve. I even leaned back slightly in my chair while signing the document. My fingers were still trembling, but not so noticeably.
"Understood," I nodded. "Accept my apologies. Apparently missed it in the general routine."
Lebedeva said nothing, just took the tablet and switched to something else. I stood up, nodded goodbye and, trying not to exhale too loudly, left into the corridor.
The door closed behind me.
And only then did I allow myself to stop. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment.
Alive. Still alive. But if such a trifle caused almost an interrogation, what will happen if they?.. Not now.
I straightened up again and walked down the corridor, slightly faster than usual.
Sector 6, Facility "Kovel-1". Time—11:00 AM.
I returned to my office and closed the door, slowly and silently, as if someone could hear even the click of the lock. I walked to the desk, sat down. Opened an empty terminal tab. Stared at it for a long time. Just stared. As if something could appear in this white rectangle that would change everything. Some way out, a backup move, a message: "You can change your mind."
Nothing appeared.
I closed the tab. My palm involuntarily clenched into a fist—and immediately let go. Even anger seemed inappropriate here. As if the sterility that reigned everywhere here suppressed not only bacteria, but all emotions.
A standard notification came from the left terminal: "Confirming presence in system. Active session. Continue?"
I pressed "Yes." And only then realized how symbolic this was.
I stood up, walked to the wall, on which there were no diagrams, no graphs, no motivational quotes. Just smooth metal. I leaned my forehead against it—cold.
"Soon," I exhaled. "Soon it will all end. Or begin. Depending on perspective."
I sat back down and opened a private communication channel. It was encrypted, as required: two-way protocol, "silent box," absent from corporate communication lists.
I typed a short message:
"Confirmation of readiness. Transfer—May 19, Aurora Square. Channel 3B."
Pressed "send." My fingers were trembling, but not from fear. Rather, from realization.
The screen displayed: "Received. Readiness confirmed."
I turned off the terminal and leaned back in my chair. Stared at the ceiling. Ten minutes. Fifteen. I don't know how much time passed.
And then... I just closed my eyes.
I allowed myself to fall asleep right at my workplace.
I dreamed of the meeting place. Without sounds. Without faces. Only faceless figures moving in jerks like marionettes in dim light. I stood in the center. In my hand—the ampoule. That same one. Red as blood on snow. But the glass was cracked.
I wanted to let it go—but my fingers wouldn't obey. Shards dug into my palm. Crimson drops settled on the tiles. A fog of the same color formed around.
Footsteps from afar. One. Two. Three.
I turned around—and saw Lia.
She stood silently. Skin—deathly pale, but it seemed life still glimmered in her eyes.
She didn't say a word. Just looked—as if expressing pity.
And then disappeared.