Chapter 1: Corpse Spots on the Ice

The winter in Novosibirsk is like a rag soaked in ice water; the cold, impossible to wring out, snakes through the door cracks and burrows straight into your marrow. Ilya Romanov sat at the desk in the corner of his clinic—a rickety thing missing a leg, propped up by a stack of bricks—a ballpoint pen pinched between his fingers, the tip hovering in mid-air, refusing to descend.

Spread out on the desk was an autopsy report. The deceased was a forty-year-old man with a bullet hole in his chest, but Ilya was staring at a smudge of dark yellow fiber caught in the man’s fingernails. He had just finished writing the words "Homicide" when the door curtain whipped open.

It wasn’t the police who stepped inside, but three men in black leather jackets. The leader tossed his coat onto the iron bed frame behind Ilya with a roughness that suggested he was handling a bag of trash.

"Dr. Romanov," he grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco. "Your hand’s been a bit shaky lately. Writing reports so slowly—looking for an excuse to stall?"

Ilya didn’t look up. He simply screwed the cap back onto his pen, the plastic making a faint, grating sound.

"There’s no doctor here. Just a janitor who cleans up other people’s messes." His voice was flat, like the surface of a frozen river, yet hiding a sharp, treacherous current beneath. "The fiber on the body is a nylon blend. That material doesn't just appear at the scene of your little 'accidents.' Not unless someone strangled him with a rope before finishing him off with a bullet."

The leader’s expression darkened. He spun around, grabbed Ilya by the collar, and hauled him up from the chair. Ilya’s ribs slammed against the back of the chair, the dull thud echoing sharply in the cramped clinic. He gritted his teeth, refusing to beg, his gray-blue eyes locked onto the man’s, cold enough to send a shiver down anyone’s spine.

"File another false report, and the woman at the National Archives is next," the man hissed, his spit landing on Ilya’s white coat. Ilya gently shook off his hand, straightened his crooked tie, and pulled a crumpled prescription pad from the drawer, sliding it toward the man.

"These are painkillers. Keep them for yourself. And next time you come in, close the door. Don't let the cold ruin the body—it messes with my assessment."

The man spat on the floor, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door behind him. Ilya collapsed back into his chair, his right hand clutching his left ribs. Three were broken; the old injury from the last time he’d been beaten had reopened. He coughed, a streak of blood staining the paper where he’d written "Homicide."

He pulled out his phone. The screen lit up with a text from Natalia Zaitsev: "Ilya, your Digital Search Access for the National Archives has been approved. It’s valid for 48 hours. Don't do anything stupid."

Ilya turned off the phone and looked out at the gray, dreary street. In the distance, the frantic wail of an ambulance siren cut through the air.

A few hours later, there was another knock at the clinic door. This time, only one tall figure entered, wearing a meticulously tailored charcoal-gray coat and carrying a black briefcase. The visitor didn't speak; he simply placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. Inside lay two things: a thick envelope of cash and a yellowed, vintage photograph.

Ilya’s fingers hovered over the edge of the photo, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. The picture showed a young woman with a ponytail, smiling brightly. It was his wife, who had died five years ago in a winter car accident.

"Mr. Belousov," Ilya said, his voice raspy.

Maxim Belousov nodded and sat on the edge of the dilapidated iron bed, his movements possessing an elegance that felt entirely out of place in this slum clinic.

"Mr. Romanov, I’ve heard much about you." Maxim’s gaze flicked to Ilya’s injured ribs, his mouth curled in a mask of professional indifference. "I know your situation. The mob broke your ribs. You want revenge, but more than that, you want your dignity back. I can give you that dignity—the kind paid for in rubles."

Ilya pushed the photo back, his movements slow, as if he were pushing against a heavy tombstone. "I don't take private jobs, especially those involving contraband."

"This isn't contraband. It’s a file." Maxim pulled a stack of photocopied documents from his briefcase and slapped them onto the desk. "1998. The mine collapse in the southern suburbs of Novosibirsk. The official record calls it a natural disaster; there were three thousand victims on the list.

"But I know that at two o'clock that afternoon, there were signs of manual welding at the mine entrance—evidence meant to be covered up. Your employer wants the Original Exploration Records and the shift manager’s attendance log for that day."

Ilya stared at the documents, his brow furrowed. "Three thousand lives for a trade secret? That’s absurd."

"In this city, lives are thinner than paper." Maxim stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow. "The pay is five hundred thousand rubles. Once it’s done, I’ll arrange for you to be treated at the best hospital and provide you with a new identity. If you refuse, or if you try to call the police, the woman in that photo..."

He pointed to the old picture and paused. "She will remain in the past forever, and you will spend the rest of your life in prison. I know you’ve served time for taking the fall for others. You know better than anyone that in a place like that, no one remembers your name."

Ilya fell silent. The only sound in the clinic was the ticking of the wall clock—monotonous and rapid, like a beating heart. He thought of Natalia, the woman who would argue until she was red in the face over a few lines of data at the National Archives. She had once told him, "Ilya, the truth has weight. Can you carry it?"

"Where is the file?" Ilya asked, his voice hoarse.

"Level three of the National Archives, in the old paper storage section. There are no blind spots in the surveillance, but you need professional access." Maxim pulled a USB drive from his bag and placed it on the desk. "This is the encrypted key for the search terms. You have 48 hours. Remember, I want the originals, not copies.

"And if you find something in those files you can't explain—say, certain names—you need to learn how to keep your mouth shut."

Ilya looked at the USB drive, then back at the old photo. He reached out and grabbed the picture, stuffing it into his breast pocket. The movement was gentle, but his grip was firm; the paper crinkled under the pressure.

"I’ll take the job," Ilya said.

Maxim didn't seem surprised. He adjusted his cuffs and turned toward the door. Before crossing the threshold, he glanced back at Ilya. "Don't disappoint me, Dr. Romanov. After all, the dead don't speak, but files do. If the contents of those files don't match your memories, well... good luck."

After the door closed, Ilya picked up his phone and dialed Natalia’s number. The ringing was long; she didn't pick up until the third ring. In the background, the crisp sound of keyboard clacking could be heard.

"Ilya? Are you hurt?" Natalia’s voice was anxious, her attempt to suppress her emotions failing.

"I’m looking into clues about an old file—the 1998 mine disaster." Ilya leaned against the wall, a sharp pain shooting through his ribs, and took a deep breath. "I need you to help me look up someone: Dmitri Ivanov. He used to be the captain of the hockey team. He’s been living at the East District Nursing Home since he retired."

"Dmitri? That senile old man?" Natalia stopped typing. "He has severe cognitive impairment. He can't even remember his own daughter's name. What could you possibly find from him?"

"He was at the mine site when it happened. He was the only member of management to survive. The official records say he went missing, but I found a blurry video of him appearing at a hospital after the accident." Ilya’s finger slid across the screen, pulling up the old photo. "Natalia, you were the one who helped me scan this photo, right?"

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, save for the sound of her breathing. "Yes. It’s the only clear photo of your wife that remains. I saved it in the cloud backup at the Archives, just in case."

Natalia’s voice dropped. "Ilya, Maxim Belousov’s background is clean, but his employer isn't. Tatiana Karbov, the chairwoman of The Foundation—she has a lot of influence in political circles. Why would she want a file on a mine disaster from over twenty years ago?"

Ilya didn't answer. He walked to the window and watched the taxis speeding by, their headlights cutting two blurry arcs through the falling snow. He remembered Maxim’s final words: *If the contents of those files don't match your memories, well... good luck.*

In his memory, his wife had died in a routine traffic accident. But in the background of that old photo, he could faintly see a towering smokestack—the signature mark of the Novosibirsk mining district.

"Dmitri Ivanov is going to be bowling at the community center today," Natalia said suddenly. "I checked his community registration info. Ilya, be careful. Belousov won't leave you a way out. And going after a man with cognitive impairment is dangerous in its own right.

"If he doesn't remember, or if he remembers it wrong, you could find yourself pulled into an even deeper whirlpool."

"I know," Ilya said. "I owe her the truth, and I owe those who died in the mines an explanation."

"Sounds noble," Natalia scoffed. "But the reality is, you only have 48 hours. Once the Digital Search Access expires, the original paper archives will be sealed. If you can't find Dmitri to confirm the key details, you won't get that five hundred thousand rubles, and you’ll lose your life, too."

Hanging up, Ilya put on his coat and tucked the photo securely against his chest. He stepped out of the clinic, the cold wind hitting him head-on, instantly freezing the sweat on his face. He looked up at the distant, gloomy skyline. The silhouette of Novosibirsk flickered in the wind and snow, looking like a giant, sleeping corpse.

He hailed a taxi and gave the address for the East District Nursing Home. Outside the window, streetlamps flickered on one by one, their dim, yellow halos spreading across the snow like unfinished sentences written upon the ground. He closed his eyes, and in his mind, he saw his wife’s smiling face—and the world that might be hidden behind those eyes.