The recycled air in the corridors of Citadel Monolit tasted of ozone and hot metal, a sterile flavor that scoured the memory of the wastes from his tongue. Sineus walked with a steady, ground-eating stride, his boots echoing on the polished concrete. The walls were seamless, dark, and absolute, their structural memory held firm by the constant, subliminal hum of the Mnemonic Chorus. Here, thirty-five kilometers from the skeletal overpass, nothing was allowed to forget its purpose. His purpose, for now, was to report.
Colonel Ivan Morozov’s office was at the Citadel's heart, a cube of steel and concrete that was more machine than room. Morozov himself seemed forged from the same material. He sat behind a wide steel desk, a man in his late sixties whose face was a map of hard-won territory. He did not look up as Sineus entered and stood at attention, merely acknowledging him with a nod that was as precise as a locking gear. On the collar of Morozov's grey uniform, a small brass pin showed a tri-spoke symbol, its three arms meant to represent order, duty, and memory.
— Report, — Morozov said, his voice the low rumble of a well-maintained engine.
— Girder G-7 of the Skeletal Overpass, structural memory reinforced from eighteen percent to twenty-five, — Sineus stated, his words clipped and factual. — The decay rate has increased by seven percent since the last cycle. The pattern is accelerating across the entire sector.
The data hung in the quiet room, a set of facts with no emotion attached. Morozov processed the information, his gaze fixed on a point beyond the wall. He made no notes. The facts were now part of his memory, filed and cross-referenced. After a long moment, he reached for a small, soot-stained kettle and two chipped ceramic cups. The gesture was a breach of protocol, a small act of trust that moved their meeting from the official to the personal.
He poured two cups of a dark, steaming liquid that smelled of roasted roots and chicory. It was the bitter tea of the bunkers, brewed from hydroponic stock, but it was hot. He pushed one cup across the steel desk. Sineus took it, the warmth a welcome stranger against his cold hands.
— The council sees ghosts, — Morozov said, his voice low. He stared into his cup as if reading the future in the dark liquid. — They fear panic more than the rot. They believe that to admit the decay is accelerating is to invite it in.
The words were a simple statement of the system’s failure. The leadership of the Eurasian Federation Successors, the men and women who commanded the last great bastion of order, were paralyzed by the very thing they swore to fight. They chose the illusion of stability over the hard work of facing the truth.
Morozov reached into a drawer and placed a heavy object on the desk with a solid thud. It was a multi-tool, its steel casing worn and dark, identical to the one Sineus carried from his father. It was a symbol of their shared history, of a lineage of engineers who built and repaired. A tool, not a weapon.
— Hope is not a feeling, Sineus, — Morozov said, his eyes finally meeting Sineus’s. The gaze was clear and hard as diamond. — It is a tool you build, every day.
The words were the core of the old man’s belief, the central gear in the machine of his soul. Sineus looked from the tool to Morozov’s face. He understood the gift. It was a promise, a piece of shared purpose. He reached out and took the multi-tool. Its weight was familiar, a solid and dependable fact in his hand.
Morozov seemed to understand. His expression did not change. The moment of personal connection was over, sealed away. He returned to the language of the Citadel.
— Your report is noted, Ranger. Resume your standard patrol rotation at 06:00 tomorrow.
The order was clear. The official protocol was maintained. Sineus watched as Morozov tapped a sequence on his desk console. A small light blinked, and the data Sineus had brought—the warning of accelerating decay, the proof of a world coming apart at the seams—was digitally filed. A small tag appeared on the screen for a fraction of a second: Anomalous Environmental Decay, Low Priority. The report was buried, another inconvenient fact sacrificed for the sake of order.
— Sir, — Sineus said, his voice flat.
He saluted, a sharp, precise motion. Morozov returned it. The meeting was concluded. Sineus turned and walked out of the office, the heavy steel door hissing shut behind him. The weight of the new tool in his pocket felt significant, a promise he did not fully understand but was now bound to keep.
As he stepped back into the main corridor, a new sound joined the low hum of the Citadel. It was the Mnemonic Chorus, the daily recitation that held the city together. Thousands of voices, broadcast from every speaker, reciting the litanies of maintenance, the chemical formulas of the air, the structural load of every beam. It was the sound of unity, the sound of a city remembering itself into existence. But beneath the chorus, so faint it was almost nothing, he could hear a ghost in the data stream, a thin, repeating whisper of static that did not belong. It was a sound like a hairline crack in a perfect wall, a flaw too small to matter, until it was all that mattered.
