Chapter 1: Lost Relic on a Snowy Night

December 2024, Novosibirsk.

Outside the window, snowflakes whirled through the sky like shredded receipts, hammering against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Siberian Light hotel with a rapid, relentless hiss. Alexei Kuznetsov stood in the shadow of the front desk, a Titanium Cylinder gripped in his hand. This wasn’t some standard camera gear; the cylinder was ice-cold to the touch, etched with deep, sharp marks, looking less like an object and more like a nail forgotten in the cracks of time.

Thirty minutes prior, a guest in an old coat had accidentally left the cylinder on the luggage rack while checking out. Security had followed standard protocol and placed it in the lost-and-found cabinet. Alexei had been cross-referencing the night’s guest list, ready to hand over the item, when his gaze snagged on the perforations on the side of the tube. They weren’t decorative. Beneath them lay a set of precise coordinates and orbital parameters, with a yellowed piece of paper tucked underneath.

He slid the paper out. It was an old orbital map, the lines rough and jagged, marking space launch windows that had been defunct for years.

“Alexei, what are you holding?” Sergei, the duty manager, poked his head out, his voice unnaturally tense.

“Guest’s property.” Alexei quickly stuffed the paper into the inner pocket of his coat, moving fast as if hiding a winning lottery ticket, “Sergei, check the records for the corridor cleaning cart that passed through after nine PM. That cart isn’t on the schedule tonight.”

Sergei blinked, then lowered his voice: “You’re saying... someone is watching the lost-and-found cabinet? I was just looking at the monitors. There’s a janitor in uniform circling the cabinet twice. Didn’t take anything, but he left in a huge hurry.”

“Pull the footage from 9:15 to 9:20. Enhance the audio.” Alexei’s fingertip rested on the edge of the Titanium Cylinder, the cold metal seeping into his bones, spreading across his palm, “Don’t let him leave.”

Before Sergei could respond, the landline on the front desk exploded with a shrill ring, the noise piercing like a distress signal. Alexei glanced at it; static crackled on the other end, followed by silence. He cut the call, picked up the cylinder, and stepped out from behind the desk. At the end of the hallway, the automatic doors slid open and shut, letting a gale of cold air swirl in, beating snow particles against his face.

He didn’t head back to the office. Instead, he walked straight to the staff corridor. This was the hotel’s main artery, connecting the kitchen, laundry, and logistics warehouse, and it happened to be the area with the densest blind spots in the surveillance coverage.

“Move.” A gruff voice echoed from the entrance of the corridor.

Two men in black jackets blocked the way. One of them held a walkie-talkie, frantically calling for backup. Their eyes darted around, refusing to meet Alexei’s gaze, but their feet planted firmly, sealing off the exit.

Alexei stopped. He pulled a room keycard from his pocket and spun it around his finger once. “I’m the manager here. Who are you?”

“Routine inspection. The hotel is suspected of harboring illegal items.” One of them held up a crumpled ID, his voice deliberately low, as if masking a tremor of panic, “Please cooperate with the investigation.”

“IDs from the Novosibirsk Police Department display branch codes.” Alexei’s tone was flat, as if they were discussing tomorrow’s breakfast, “That card is fake. And if you actually had a search warrant, you’d be photographing my face for the record right now, not chatting in the staff corridor. The cleaners on this floor rotate shifts every thirty minutes. My schedule is posted on the wall. You’ve been standing here for over nine minutes.”

The two men exchanged a glance, the air thick with awkward tension.

“Don’t waste everyone’s time.” Alexei took a step forward, his boot heel striking the tiles with a crisp snap, “Put the ID down. Now. Leave my hotel.”

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Not the elevator—the stairs. Alexei sidestepped into an unused storage room nearby, quickly pulling a narrow door shut, leaving just a crack to observe the outside.

The same janitor from before was flanking the two men in black, holding a black tool bag. His uniform was washed until it was white, his cap pulled low, covering most of his face.

“Boss, I pulled the footage,” Black Jacket #1 called into the walkie-talkie, the voice garbled with static, “The guy headed for the underground parking. We chasing him?”

“Chase him.” The janitor with the cap spoke up, his voice raspy, like a chronic cough that wouldn’t heal, “Don’t let him enter the garage. Our car is in the garage.”

Alexei held his breath, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He recognized that voice. In this hotel, only one regular spoke with that kind of cadence.

He shoved the door open and crashed into the nearest fire hydrant cabinet. The sound of shattering glass exploded in the silent hallway, like a muffled thunderclap.

“Get him!” Black Jacket #1 roared.

Alexei didn’t run toward the parking lot. He turned and sprinted toward the service elevator. The buttons were right there, but he pressed “B2”—Basement Level 2, where the staff changing rooms were, not the garage.

He leaped into the elevator and slammed the door-close button. As the metal doors slid shut, through the narrowing gap, he saw the janitor with the cap already had a short knife drawn, his eyes fierce, like a cornered beast.

The elevator descended, the sensation of free-fall making Alexei’s stomach clench. He watched the floor numbers tick down: 5, 4, 3, 2.

His phone vibrated. It was a text from Maxim Volkov. Three lines, short and urgent:

“Alexei, Belousov’s people are in the city. I’m being held up by upper management, can’t deploy police. What you have is more important than you think. Watch out for the archivist; Tatiana is on your tail. —M”

Alexei looked at the screen and let out a cold snort. Maxim was a detective at the Border Checkpoint, upright as a stone, but in a situation like this, even stones get stomped into the mud. And that collector named Belousov supposedly believed in the spiritual nature of artifacts, convinced that treasures choose their owners. If that were true, then this Titanium Cylinder had chosen him.

The elevator doors opened. The air on B2 was damp and moldy, a mix of laundry detergent and rusting metal. There were no cameras here, just stacks of spare supplies and the occasional passing worker.

Alexei didn’t stop. He rushed through the changing room and headed for the exit leading to the back alley. He pushed open the heavy fire door. The moment the wind and snow battered his face, the world became clear and cruel.

The alley was narrow, the snow deep. He spotted a black Volvo parked at the corner, the hood still open, steam rising from the engine. That was Belousov’s ride. He was reportedly an old-school guy, trusting only physical objects and antiques.

But right now, the more dangerous threat was coming from another direction.

At the mouth of the alley, a red taxi rolled to a slow stop. The door opened, and a woman in a heavy parka stepped out. She pulled off her sunglasses, revealing a pair of exhausted yet sharp eyes.

“Tatiana?” Alexei stopped, his hand resting on the Titanium Cylinder in his coat pocket.

Tatiana Ivanov, a young clerk at the National Archives in charge of digital cataloging. She looked older than her thirty years, deep dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days.

“Alexei Kuznetsov.” Her voice was dry when she spoke, “What you’re holding is the index for Project T-4. It was the last orbital correction mission your father participated in. It proves that the accident back then wasn’t human error, it was... tampered data.”

Alexei narrowed his eyes: “You knew the cylinder was on me? How did you follow?”

“I didn’t follow.” Tatiana let out a bitter laugh, the white breath from her mouth vanishing instantly in the cold air, “I calculated it. Belousov wants that cylinder. He spent three months buying partial surviving reels of Project T-4 on the black market. He believes that if he finds the complete index, he can restore the erased history. And you are the one who happened to pick up the key.”

“Is it worth destroying an archive for a dead man’s reputation?” Alexei demanded.

“It’s not destruction, it’s restitution.” Tatiana took a step forward, the wind and snow swirling around her in a vortex, “Alexei, Belousov won’t let you walk out of this alley alive. The men he hired are in the car, and that guy posing as a janitor. They want the cylinder, but they also want your life. Because you are the only ‘living evidence’ that the data wasn’t completely destroyed.”

Alexei felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. He looked toward the street. The driver’s seat of the Volvo was empty, but a thin film of condensation covered the window, with a faint scratch visible on the glass.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“Because I’m a victim too.” Tatiana’s voice dropped, almost like a whisper to herself, “I saw those redacted pages in the archive. Every redaction corresponds to a person disappearing. My mentor ‘disappeared’ ten years ago. Same way.”

She reached out, gesturing for him to hand over the film cylinder.

“Give it to me. I know Olga Ivanov, the old forensic expert. She has a duplicate copy, kept in her private safe. Only she and I can piece together the whole picture. But the prerequisite is that you have to survive this night.”

Alexei didn’t hand it over immediately. He stared into Tatiana’s eyes, searching for even a trace of deception. But all he found was deep exhaustion and a near-desperate honesty.

“How far are those guys?” Alexei asked.

“Three minutes.” Tatiana said, “The Volvo driver is waiting for the signal. Once it’s given, they’ll rush in.”

Alexei pulled the Titanium Cylinder from his pocket, but instead of handing it to her, he tucked it into his inner chest pocket. “Listen, Tatiana. I don’t want a copy. I want the actual files, including the redacted pages. Do you have the key?”

Tatiana paused: “Yes. But I don’t have permission to extract them. That requires Olga’s signature.”

“Then go get Olga.” Alexei turned and walked toward the shadows at the back of the alley, “I’ll wait for you in the underground archive room at the Old Train Station. If I don’t see you in twenty minutes, I’ll go in myself. Belousov thinks the treasure chose him. I’ll show him that some things only choose the awake.”

He vanished into the wind and snow.

Tatiana stood there, staring at the empty snowfield, her phone gripped tightly in her hand. The screen lit up with a voice message from an unknown number. She opened it and played it.

“Miss, stop waiting. He’s not going anywhere. The car behind you has been off for a long time.”

Tatiana whipped around. The Volvo was pulling away silently, its tail lights leaving two red streaks in the snow, quickly covered by the fresh falling flakes.

She dialed another number, her voice trembling: “Olga, something’s wrong. Alexei Kuznetsov... he has the key to T-4. Belousov’s people are surrounding us. I need your help. Right now.”

There was a silence on the other end for a few seconds, followed by a heavy, aged sigh.

“Wait, Tatiana. I have what you’re looking for in my car. Also, take that film cylinder. Look closely at the name etched on it right now. It will become your greatest curse, and your only salvation.”

Tatiana hung up and looked down at her empty hands. Alexei hadn’t actually given her the cylinder. He took the only lead with him, leaving her in the most dangerous situation.

The wind and snow grew fiercer. The night in Novosibirsk was so quiet you could only hear the sound of snowflakes landing on her shoulders.

On the other end of the city, Alexei stood at the entrance of the Old Train Station, the cold wind slicing at his face like a knife. He reached for the Titanium Cylinder against his chest again, his fingertips brushing the raised etching.

He paused, using the dim yellow light of the street lamp to flip the film cylinder over.

The small line of text was painfully clear.

It wasn’t a serial number, it wasn’t a code.

It was his name.

Alexei’s father had died in that tampered space accident long ago. And this cold metal cylinder had taken over twenty years to finally land in his son’s hands.

He clenched his fist. The metal edge dug into his palm, causing a sharp sting of pain.

This wasn’t a gift. It was a trap, or perhaps, revenge.

He looked up at the pitch-black night sky. In the distance, the tail lights of Belousov’s Volvo finally disappeared around the corner. Behind him, a black sedan was silently sliding into the intersection. Inside, the driver was picking up a phone, dialing a number.

The snow fell harder.