The safehouse in the Berlin under-levels smelled of damp concrete, ozone, and defeat. It was a repurposed water cistern, a concrete lung deep in the city’s forgotten anatomy. Ansel Stern sat on an overturned crate, methodically cleaning a pulse rifle he didn’t have the right power cells for. The work was a prayer to function in a world that had stopped making sense. Zora Kos, her shoulder bandaged in clean, white synth-fabric that looked alien in the grime, stared at a flickering map on her datapad, her face a mask of tight-lipped fury. They were alive. It did not feel like a victory.
Sineus watched them. He watched Ksenia Morozova, who stood perfectly still, her back to them all, tracing the lines of a faded pre-collapse transit map on the curved wall. She was an archivist. She was looking for a pattern in the ruins. They were all looking for patterns. Voss had shown them that patterns were just another type of cage. The knowledge that their enemy had their playbook, that he could predict their righteous anger and desperate lunges, was a heavier weight than any concrete ceiling. They had moved from reactive resistance to proactive attack, and in doing so, had walked right into a laboratory.
A polite, clean knock echoed from the reinforced steel door.
It was so out of place, so utterly civilized, that for a second no one moved. It was the sound of a different world intruding on theirs. Zora’s hand went to her sidearm. Ansel stopped cleaning the rifle, his hands freezing over the useless weapon. Ksenia turned from the wall, her face unreadable. Sineus looked at the door. It was not the sound of a raid. A raid used plasma cutters and shaped charges. A raid did not knock.
— We are not expecting company, — Ksenia stated, her voice a flat line.
Sineus walked to the door. He looked through the peep-lens, a piece of scavenged optics Ansel had installed. He saw a man in a suit that probably cost more than the entire cistern. The fabric was a deep charcoal grey, tailored with a precision that seemed obscene this far from the sun. He was flanked by two figures in severe, high-collared uniforms of the Archive State. They were unarmed, or at least appeared to be. The man in the suit smiled, a warm, reasonable expression that was the most terrifying thing Sineus had seen all week.
Sineus unbolted the door. The price of paranoia was isolation. The price of curiosity was this.
The man stepped inside, bringing with him the scent of clean air and expensive cologne. He moved with a liquid grace, his polished shoes navigating the grimy, uneven floor without a single misstep. His guards remained outside, two silent statues framing the doorway.
— Sineus, — the man said, his voice as smooth as his suit. He extended a hand. Sineus did not take it. The man’s smile did not falter. He let his hand drop. — My name is Valentin Orlov. I represent the interests of the Archive State.
— We know who you are, — Ksenia’s voice was ice. She had not moved from her spot by the wall, but her entire posture was a weapon.
Orlov gave her a brief, appreciative nod. — Of course you do, Ksenia. You were one of our brightest. A tragic loss.
He turned his attention back to Sineus, his eyes sweeping over the damp, cramped space. He took in Zora’s bandaged shoulder, Ansel’s useless rifle, the general air of exhaustion. His gaze was not one of pity, but of appraisal. He was a collector viewing a piece he was considering acquiring.
— MemTech’s leash is tightening, — Orlov said, his tone conversational. He knew about Site Anubis. He knew they had been played. He was here to offer them a different game. — Maximilian Voss is a talented man. But he is a nihilist with a business plan. He sees reality as a market to be cornered, and chaos as a driver of demand. He is not a historian. He is a predator.
— And you are? — Sineus asked.
— A librarian, — Orlov said, his smile returning. — My state believes that history is the foundation of civilization. It must be preserved. Protected. Curated. We offer you a chance to do just that.
He let the offer hang in the air. — Asylum. New identities, clean and deep. Weapons, resources. Our full diplomatic and logistical support. A chance to continue your work, but from a position of strength, not from a hole in the ground.
The temptation was a physical thing. It was the promise of a hot meal, a clean bed, a fight where they were not always three steps behind. Sineus could feel the hope flicker in Ansel. He could see the calculation in Zora’s eyes. It was a way out. It was a door in a wall that had none.
In a puddle of murky water on the floor, the reflection of the single bare bulb above them wavered. It was a weak, flickering light, a fragile thing in the overwhelming dark.
— And the price? — Sineus asked. He knew there was a price. There was always a price.
Orlov’s smile was perfect. It was a work of art. — A trifle. A historical document. We believe it is in your possession. The Volkov Codex.
Ksenia made a sound, a sharp intake of breath that was more violent than a shout. Her history with the Archive State, the institution she had fled, was a raw nerve. To them, the Codex was not a guide. It was an asset to be locked in a vault, its dangerous ideas neutralized by classification.
— Its contents are too important to be left in the hands of… amateurs, — Orlov finished, the insult delivered with the gentle precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
Sineus looked at Orlov. He saw the logic. He saw the safety. He saw the clean sheets and the full ammunition clips. He saw a comfortable cage, just with a different logo on the door. He thought of his ancestor’s words. He thought of Ansel’s stolen memories. He thought of the choice to pay together. This was not paying together. This was selling the soul of their rebellion for a better class of servitude.
— No, — Sineus said.
The word was quiet. It was absolute. There was no room for negotiation in it. It was a door slamming shut.
For the first time, Valentin Orlov’s smile faltered. It did not vanish, but it hardened, the warmth in it freezing over. The muscles around his eyes tightened. The mask of the reasonable diplomat was replaced by the face of the predator he had accused Voss of being. The reflection in his perfectly polished shoes was sharp and cold, a black mirror showing Sineus and his broken team, trapped and exposed.
— A pity, — Orlov said, and the warmth was gone from his voice now, leaving only the chill of policy. — We will acquire it one way or another.
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He turned and walked out of the cistern, his footsteps silent on the concrete. The two guards stepped back, and the heavy steel door swung shut, the sound of the bolts sliding home echoing in the sudden silence.
They were alone again. But the room felt smaller. The walls felt closer. They had been hunted by one monster. Now there were two. Sineus looked down at the puddle on the floor. The reflection of the light bulb was still there, but the flicker was gone. It was just a steady, dim point of light trapped in an endless, unmoving darkness.
The air was still, thick with the smell of damp earth. The low hum of the air recycler seemed louder now, the only sound in their tomb.
