《Waltz of the City Lights》


 Chapter 1

    Moscow has plunged into the night¡¯s cloak, as if wrapped in soft velvet, gently concealing all the imperfections of the city and revealing only the mysterious outlines of its streets and buildings. A light breeze, like the whisper of ancient legends, rustles through the treetops, and rare passersby, like shadows, glide along the streets, trying not to linger under the stars longer than necessary. Among these shadows and glimmers of light, she appears¡ªa woman whose name is known to only a few.


    Kismet walked down the street as if gliding over the surface of the water. Her gait was confident and light, like someone who knows where they are going. The skyscrapers, like ancient giants, reflected their shimmering lights in her dark hair, creating the illusion that the strands of her hair were coming alive, transforming into writhing snakes. Each of her steps was filled with grace and mystery, as if she moved to music only she could hear. She seemed to have escaped from a story steeped in mystery and romance, but¡­


    Mark, a young journalist, stood at the corner of the street, waiting for a taxi. His day had been long and tiring, and he only dreamed of getting home quickly. However, when he saw Kismet, his fatigue vanished, giving way to curiosity and a slight thrill. She was like a mirage¡ªreal and yet ephemeral, like a fleeting dream in reality. Her presence was so tangible that it felt as if the air around her thickened, saturated with the scent of mystery.


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    He couldn¡¯t take his eyes off her. Kismet, as if sensing this, slowed her pace and met his gaze for a moment. At that instant, Mark felt as if time had frozen. Her look was deep and penetrating, as if she could see right through him, knowing not only his thoughts but also his most secret dreams, fears, and hopes. That gaze was like a key to his soul, unlocking doors he was afraid to touch.


    Kismet smiled¡ªand in that smile was something more than just a greeting. It was a mystery, a challenge, an invitation to a world that Mark did not know but desperately wanted to explore.


    ¡°Who is she? A time traveler, a loving soul, or a guardian of the forgotten?¡± Questions linger in the air like morning fog, and only bitter truth knows the answer. But perhaps this is the charm of the night in Moscow: it conceals yet reveals, creates a mystery and leaves room for dreams.

 Chapter 2

    The next day, the image of Kismet lingered in Mark''s thoughts, like a mysterious melody stuck in his mind. He decided he had to find her. His journalistic instinct suggested that there was something more to this encounter than mere coincidence¡ªsomething that could change his life. He began asking acquaintances in the area where he had last seen her, trying to gather even a shred of information about the enigmatic woman, as if collecting scattered pieces of a mosaic.


    Everyone who had encountered Kismet saw her in their own way. To some, she was an artist, her movements and words akin to poetry; to others, a philosopher, whose thoughts were deep and layered like mysterious horizons. Some claimed she was just a tourist seeking inspiration in every city, like an artist gathering a palette of vibrant colors. However, none of those questioned knew where she lived or what she truly did, as if she were a spirit gliding through the streets, leaving only a faint trace in memory.


    Mark understood that the answer lay not in the responses of others but in his own observations. Perhaps she had left a trace in local newspapers or on social media pages. At times, while flipping through old records to find some clue, he caught himself thinking that searching for information about this woman was not just a job but a genuine obsession that made him forget the failures of his evening pursuits.


    March turned out to be surprisingly cold. Unusual shadows of clouds swirled low over the city. Mark walked purposefully through Patriarch''s Ponds, scanning for a familiar silhouette. For a week, the image of the mysterious stranger had not left him alone¡ªhe had first seen her here, by the old mansion. On the day he got into his taxi, their eyes met for just a moment, but that was enough for her image to be etched in his memory. Walking down the same street, he felt the frosty breath penetrating his thoughts, cutting them off from the city''s hustle. Now he returned here again and again, hoping for a new encounter that could dispel the fog of mystery surrounding her image. In his mind, she was like a heroine from a novel, to whom he was ready to dedicate all his time.


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    Passing by a bookstore, he noticed her¡ªthe same woman was examining a rare edition on history, making notes in her notebook. His heart raced, as if anticipating the meeting he had unconsciously dreamed of. Mark, just finishing an interview for an article about the city''s vanishing architecture, decided this was a sign. He entered the store, where the aroma of old books and wood mingled with the sound of softly playing classical music. Kismet noticed him but showed neither surprise nor irritation. On the contrary, her gaze suggested that she had been expecting his arrival, as if everything were part of some grand design of fate.


    ¡°Are you a journalist?¡± she asked, and as she stepped closer, Mark could see her up close: dark hair gathered in an elegant bun and attentive gray eyes.


    Mark nodded, taken aback by the directness of her question. After a moment, he replied, ¡°Yes, I write about the architectural heritage of the city.¡±


    ¡°What a funny coincidence. I happen to be researching the same topic,¡± she said with a slight smile, showcasing the book in her hand as confirmation of her words. ¡°My name is Kismet.¡±


    ¡°Mark,¡± he introduced himself.


    ¡°An unusual name. Turkish, it means ¡®fate,¡¯¡± she said, looking closely at Mark. ¡°You know, I have a proposal. Why don¡¯t we discuss our research over a cup of coffee? Perhaps we could be of help to each other,¡± she said carefully, without a hint of doubt in his interest.

 Chapter 3

    Through a series of doors in the building, like mysterious portals, there was a caf¨¦. The place was intimate¡ªonly five tables, each surrounded by a halo of soft, muted light. The walls were draped in dark burgundy wallpaper with a barely noticeable Eastern pattern. The aroma of coffee filled the air.


    "You know, Mark," the girl began when their coffee was brought in cardboard cups, "I¡¯ve been following your publications about Moscow architecture. I was particularly interested in the series of articles about apartment buildings from the early 20th century." She took a folder with documents out of her leather bag. "Look at these photographs. They are pictures of basement spaces in several buildings in the center. Notice the markings on the walls." Mark took the photographs. Strange symbols were visible on the brickwork¡ªgeometric shapes and numbers that seemed like a message.


    "Are these markings from construction crews?" he asked, trying to decipher their meaning.


    "Not quite," Kismet shook her head. "I work in the archive of the construction department. Over the past year, we¡¯ve discovered a whole system of such markings in buildings built between 1900 and 1910. They form a sort of map."


    "A map of what?" Mark asked, not fully understanding what she meant but already sensing his interest turning into excitement.


    "Presumably, a system of underground communications. But here¡¯s what¡¯s interesting¡ªofficial plans from that period show a completely different layout of tunnels. Moreover," she pulled out another document, "look at the dates. The markings appeared before the official urban communication system was built."


    Mark studied the papers closely, his thoughts swirling as he tried to piece together the scattered fragments of the puzzle. "And what do you think?" he asked, staring at the table cluttered with photographs and documents that seemed to breathe history.


    "I believe that at the beginning of the century, there existed a parallel network of underground structures. Possibly a private initiative by merchant families or something related to industrial espionage. But the main thing is¡ªsome of these tunnels still exist. And they are actively used."


    "And by whom?"


    "That¡¯s what we need to find out," Kismet lowered her voice. "In recent months, there have been increased instances of strange activity in these areas: movement at night, sounds of working machinery. Officially, no work is being done there. I have access to archives and building plans. You have journalistic connections and investigative experience. Together we could..."


    "Uncover a city secret a century old?" Mark interrupted her with a smirk, but there was a clear excitement in his eyes.


    "Exactly," she replied, as if ignoring his smirk, maintaining a serious tone.


    Mark slowly took a sip from his cup, inhaling the aroma of the cooling coffee. His gaze unintentionally lingered on Kismet''s graceful fingers, which lightly glided along the edge of her cup. A thin silver ring with an unusual pattern on her index finger glimmered in the warm light of the lamp hanging above their table. The story she was telling was captivating, but something about it troubled him, like a lingering shadow on a sunny day. Mark found himself mesmerized not only by the story, which hid ancient secrets beneath the Earth''s surface waiting for their moment, but also by the storyteller herself¡ªher graceful movements and the light scent of violet perfume. Something about her reminded him of the heroines in noir films¡ªmysterious women who brought not only secrets but also inevitable doom into the lives of detectives.


    "Let''s say I agree," he said, trying to keep a professional tone. "Where do you suggest we start?"


    Kismet, with a serene expression on her finely chiselled face, spread a large map of central Moscow on the table. Her dark hair, gathered in a careless bun, exposed her elegant neck, and Mark found it hard to concentrate on the map.


    "Right here," she said, leaning closer to the map, causing her perfume to become more pronounced¡ªthere¡¯s a building in the area of Maroseika. This is the oldest marking we¡¯ve discovered. It¡¯s in this area that strange activity occurs most often. I suggest we start here."


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    Mark involuntarily leaned forward, examining the indicated place. Maroseika is one of the oldest districts in Moscow, where every cobblestone remembers hundreds of stories. A place where the past and present intertwine especially closely.


    "What kind of activity?" Mark felt his interest intensifying, like a flame fanned by the wind. He took out his worn notepad with a leather cover¡ªhis faithful companion in all investigations.


    "Local residents complain about noise at night," Kismet spoke quietly, as if afraid they might be overheard. "Trucks arrive after midnight, taking something out or bringing something in. When the police come¡ªthere¡¯s no one there. Moreover, no official permits for night work have been issued."


    Mark opened his notepad, and the worn leather cover creaked under his fingers as usual. Over the years of his journalistic work, these pages had absorbed dozens of stories¡ªsome turned out to be empty, others led to sensational revelations.


    "And the building owners?" he asked, ready to record the information. His fountain pen hovered over the blank page like an arrow on a taut bowstring.


    "An offshore company," Kismet replied, and a note of disappointment flickered in her voice. "I tried to trace it¡ªthe chain goes through three countries and ends in Cyprus."


    "Classic," Mark smirked, feeling adrenaline coursing through his veins.


    "Yes, a classic money laundering scheme, but..." she paused meaningfully, "there¡¯s something more interesting."


    "What else?"


    Kismet leaned even closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. Her long dangling earrings jingled softly.


    "There¡¯s a person, a former employee of the construction department. Mikhail Vorontsov. He worked there in the eighties, dealing with the reconstruction of basement spaces." She took a photograph out of her leather bag. "Here he is, third from the left. He says he can tell us a lot of interesting things, but only in person."


    Mark studied the photo carefully: a group of workers in front of that very building, all in work clothes, smiling. The photo had yellowed with time, but the faces were clearly distinguishable.


    "And where can we find him?" Mark made a note in his notepad, carefully writing down Vorontsov¡¯s name.


    "I already found out. He lives outside the city, in Pushkino. A small private house on the outskirts, almost by the forest." Kismet pulled out a slip of paper with the address. "I arranged a meeting for tomorrow. He agreed to see us, but only in the morning."


    Mark leaned back in his chair, allowing the story to take shape in his mind, like a sculpture carved from marble. It was no longer just a tale; it was turning into a potential journalistic investigation.


    "Okay," he finally said, looking intently into Kismet¡¯s eyes. "I¡¯m in. But let¡¯s agree on this: no independent actions, we¡¯ll act thoughtfully. I have enough experience to know that such stories can be dangerous."


    "Of course," Kismet smiled, and her smile was like a promise. At that moment, a ray of the setting sun broke through the window, painting her profile in golden tones. "Shall we meet tomorrow at ten at Yaroslavsky Station?" She began to gather her things, carefully putting the documents into her handbag.


    "Agreed." He stood up as well, putting the notepad into his inner pocket.


    When they left the caf¨¦, evening Moscow had already lit up its lights. As Kismet threw a dark blue coat over her shoulders, Mark turned to her: "By the way, why did you decide to come to me?"


    Kismet hesitated for a moment, her gaze becoming thoughtful, like a cat watching a bird.


    "Let¡¯s say you¡¯re not the only one following others¡¯ publications. Your article from two years ago about underground casinos in historical buildings... You dug very deep back then. And the main thing¡ªyou brought it to completion."


    Mark frowned. That story cost him several sleepless weeks and a couple of unmistakable warnings, but the result was worth it. Without replying, he took his phone out of his pocket. "Let me call you a taxi," he offered.


    "Thank you, but I drove," she pointed to a nearby black BMW. "I can give you a ride."


    Mark shook his head, "I¡¯ll walk. I need to think, clear my head. The story you told... it needs contemplation."


    "Tomorrow at ten," Kismet said, opening the car door. "And, Mark... take your camera with you. I think we¡¯ll need it."


    She got behind the wheel, and the car smoothly merged into the flow of vehicles, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts and growing anxiety. He took out a cigarette¡ªa habit he couldn¡¯t shake, especially in tense moments.


    "See you tomorrow," he thought, pulling up the collar of his coat. Mark felt a mix of conflicting emotions wash over him. His professional instincts screamed danger, but something else, something deeper and more irrational, pulled him toward this mysterious woman and her story. Evening Moscow greeted him with a chilly March wind and a drizzling rain. Raindrops sparkled in the light of the street lamps, turning the city into a blurred watercolor. The next day promised to be the beginning of something unusual. And it wasn¡¯t just about the mysterious building on Maroseika¡ªKismet¡¯s image, her enigmatic smile, and deep gaze lingered in his mind all the way home.


    As the night metro hummed and rumbled, carrying him home, and fragments of today¡¯s conversation swirled in his head, forming a whimsical mosaic, his phone vibrated several times in his pocket. A message from an unknown number popped up as a notification on the screen and immediately vanished before he could read it. However, he wasn¡¯t particularly concerned about not knowing its content. One thing he knew for sure: this story would either become his best material or... He preferred not to think about the second possibility.

 Chapter 4

    Morning greeted Mark with a headache and a strange premonition. He woke up in his small apartment, where the first rays of the sun pierced through the curtains. However, instead of the usual feeling of vigor, he felt a heaviness in his temples and a vague anxiety, as if something important was slipping away from his understanding.


    All night, he had been dreaming convoluted dreams that left behind a sense of unease and mystery. In these dreams, he wandered through endless underground corridors, their walls covered with ancient symbols and mysterious signs. The dim light of old photographs hung on the walls illuminated his path, but their images were blurred and indistinct, as if someone were trying to erase them from memory.


    In these dreams, Kismet''s silver ring kept appearing. It was unusual, with an intricate pattern, and it seemed to possess some kind of magical power. At one point, the ring began to slowly transform into a snake. The snake was graceful and dangerous, its scales shimmering in the half-light, and its eyes burned with a green fire. It coiled around his heart, and Mark felt a cold fear envelop him.


    Upon waking, he couldn''t shake the feeling that this dream was not just a figment of his imagination. Mark decided that today he would take the time to understand what lay behind these strange visions.


    His trusty Nikon F3 film camera, a companion in many investigations, habitually settled into his bag. This camera had been with him for many years, capturing the most important moments of his career. He remembered using it for the first time in his first major case and had not parted with it since.


    Mark paused for a moment before a small home safe, pondering whether to take his voice recorder with him. This was an old habit he had acquired early in his career when he realized how important it was to record every word at meetings. The recorder was small, almost inconspicuous, but an invaluable tool. In the end, he decided it was better to be safe and carefully placed it in the inner pocket of his coat.


    Before leaving home, Mark recalled the strange message he had received the night before from an unknown number. He hadn¡¯t had time to open it, but in the moment the notification popped up, he quickly grasped its motive: warning and threatening. Deciding to ask Kismet about it when they met, he gathered everything he needed, took one last look around the room to check if he had forgotten anything, and left the house.


    Yaroslavsky Station buzzed like a disturbed hive. People rushed in different directions, creating the noise and bustle typical of the morning rush hour. The trip seemed to be the focus of everyone present, and there was something both exhilarating and exhausting in this chaos.


    Kismet was waiting for him by the old clock that towered over the crowd like a silent witness to past eras. She looked majestic and mysterious, like a noir film heroine come to life. Her dark coat billowed in the wind, giving her the appearance of a mysterious stranger. Mark slowed his pace as he spotted her from afar. He couldn¡¯t help but admire how the morning sun played in her hair, giving it a golden hue. The light created an aura around her, setting her apart from the crowd and making her image even more alluring and enigmatic.


    Mark approached closer and noticed a shadow of worry in Kismet¡¯s eyes that seemed to reflect his own feelings. They greeted each other curtly and headed to the platform.


    The train swayed gently as it glided along the tracks, carrying them away from the hustle and bustle of Moscow. Mark and Kismet sat across from each other by the window, behind which unfolded a monotonous, blurred picture of the suburbs¡ªgreen carpets of fields and forests creating the illusion of limitless space. The morning mist, not yet lifted, framed the occasionally flickering houses in a ghostly haze.


    "Tell me more about Vorontsov," Mark broke the silence, pulling out his worn notepad. "What else do you know about him?"


    Kismet momentarily diverted her gaze from the landscape outside.


    "Mikhail Vorontsov," she said thoughtfully and almost in a whisper, "worked in the construction department from 1982 to 1991. He held the position of senior engineer for the reconstruction of basement spaces. After the collapse of the USSR, he retired." She pulled a folder with documents from her bag. "But what¡¯s interesting is this. Before leaving, he requested copies of all the plans for the underground communications in the Maroseika area. Officially¡ªfor the archive. But the copies never returned to the department."


    "And you think he discovered something?" Mark quickly jotted down the information in his notebook.


    "I''m sure. When I contacted him, he initially didn¡¯t want to talk. But then..." she lowered her voice again, even though the carriage was nearly empty, "He said he had information that could change the understanding of the city''s history. And that now was the time to reveal it." Mark looked intently at Kismet. In the morning light, her face seemed especially pale, and her eyes unusually bright.


    "And why now? Why has he been silent all these years?"


    "He said he was waiting for the right moment. And for people he could trust with this information." Kismet took out her phone and showed Mark a map. "His house is here, on the outskirts of Pushkino. An old area, private construction." Mark nodded, and the rest of the trip passed in silence, each lost in their thoughts.


    An hour later, they were walking down a quiet street, where old apple trees hung over the crooked fences like guardians, keepers of elusive secrets. Vorontsov''s house appeared before them, much like its owner¡ªa cozy old man, it was a small one-story building with a green cap of moss on the roof and old window frames. Mark noticed that the gate was unlocked.


    "Strange," he muttered. His journalist instincts sent a signal of alarm. They climbed the porch, and Kismet knocked on the door. No one answered. She knocked again, harder. Silence.


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    "Maybe we¡¯re early?" Mark suggested, but Kismet shook her head.


    "We agreed on this time. He insisted on an early visit."


    Mark cautiously pushed the door¡ªit was unlocked and creaked open. Inside, the house was dim. The smell of old books mingled with something else.


    "Mikhail?" Kismet called, stepping inside. "We arranged to meet..."


    They entered a small living room that resembled a forgotten museum, where time had frozen in anticipation of a magical touch. The first thing that caught the eye was the scattered papers everywhere. Old blueprints, maps, and photographs, already lost their original form, sprawled across the floor like chalk lines on a blackboard.


    On the table stood an untouched cup of cold tea. And next to it...


    "Oh my God," Kismet gasped. Next to her on the floor lay an open leather briefcase, from which some documents spilled out. Above the table, a large map of Moscow was pinned to the wall, marked with red annotations. In the center of the map gaped a hole, as if someone had hurriedly torn out an important fragment.


    "He''s not here," Mark said slowly, surveying the room with his professional eye. "And it seems he left the house in a hurry."


    Kismet picked up one of the worn diaries from the floor, and something fell out. It was an old photograph¡ªa group of people in construction uniforms standing at the entrance to some tunnel. On the back was a pencil inscription: 1985, Entrance No. 7, Maroseika. Depth 27 meters. Strange signs discovered.


    "Mark," her voice trembled, "look at this." Kismet handed him the photograph, flipping through the pages filled with tiny handwriting, among which sketches of strange symbols were visible. "Here are the coordinates. And the entry scheme through the basement of an old apartment building. We need to get there. Today." Kismet quickly photographed the pages with her phone.


    Mark, seemingly ignoring Kismet''s words, carefully examined the scattered documents. The room looked as if someone had been hastily searching for something specific. There were notes everywhere about some artifacts and symbols.


    Kismet quickly gathered the papers, putting them into her bag. Her movements were too confident for someone encountering such a situation for the first time.


    "We need to leave," she said, stopping for a moment to glance at her watch, as if it were a trap ready to snap shut. "The main thing now is to get to that basement."


    "Why the rush?" Mark asked, his gaze filled with concern. He noticed how she skillfully hid something in her jacket pocket that resembled secrets that must not be left on the surface. "And why today?"


    "Today, there will be planned work in that area. Tomorrow it might be too late," she replied, avoiding his gaze.


    They silently left the house and called a taxi on the way. Kismet kept checking her phone, comparing it to the photographs and documents. Mark noticed how her hands trembled slightly, the hidden fears showing through the fabric of her coat. This trembling reminded him of the fluttering wings of a butterfly caught in a tight grip, ready to break free.


    Two hours later, they stood before an inconspicuous door to a basement, modestly hidden in a narrow alley between houses. The old building on Maroseika kept its secrets behind peeling plaster and a rusty lock.


    "Are you sure we can get in?" Mark pointed at the lock.


    Kismet silently produced a set of keys, their metallic gleam illuminating the murky air slightly. "I prepared in advance," she said, slowing her speech as if realizing that in this hushed place, the air was filled with unspoken questions that had their place. "I have... connections in the construction department. These are duplicates."


    As they opened the door, they felt the cold air rushing into the basement, heavy with dampness. Their footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the basement. The beam of the flashlight revealed the outlines of old pipes, fragments of bricks covered with a layer of dust, and cobwebs in the corners.


    "According to the records, the passage should be..." Kismet whispered, checking the image on her phone screen, "behind this wall."


    She began to examine the masonry, each brick frozen in the flow of time. Suddenly, Mark noticed barely discernible symbols scratched into one of the bricks. "Look, Kismet! Just like in the diary," he exclaimed, unable to hide his excitement.


    Kismet, like a doctor checking the pulse of antiquity, ran her delicate fingers over the mysterious signs. There was a quiet click, and part of the wall slowly gave way inward.


    "Incredible," Mark whispered. The air around him filled with tension. The story itself began to come alive, offering a glimpse behind the veil.


    They moved deeper into the narrow tunnel, which seemed not just a passage but a living artery pulsating in the bowels of the earth. The damp walls recalled old wounds, tears of time streaming down the cold stone, and the entire atmosphere intensified the feeling that they had ventured into the very soul of a forgotten world. The tunnel sloped down at a slight angle. After about fifty meters, Mark caught the first alarming sound¡ªa faint crackling overhead. Kismet stopped as well.


    "We need to..." he began, but his words dissolved in the air as everything suddenly collapsed upon them.


    It all happened in a matter of seconds. First, a fine dust began to fall, as if an invisible feverish underground beast stirred. Then there was a deafening roar. Mark instinctively pulled Kismet to him, pressing her against the wall. A cloud of dust enveloped them, and when it cleared, they saw that the passage through which they had entered was blocked by fallen stones.


    "Damn!" Mark cursed, rushing to the rubble. "Are we trapped?"


    "Calm down," Kismet said, her voice tense but sounding confident. "There should be another exit. The records mention a whole network of tunnels."


    And at that very moment, something metallic slipped from her pocket. Mark caught a glimpse of an ancient medallion shining in the dim light of their flashlight, covered with the same mysterious symbols that decorated the walls before she hastily picked it up.


    At that moment, everything fell into place¡ªher knowledge of the dungeons, her confident actions, the urgency, the strange behavior in Vorontsov¡¯s house. It was the beginning of a dangerous dance with mystery. She was clearly searching for something specific.


    "Why are you really here?" his question echoed through the cold tunnel. Mark looked her straight in the eyes. "What are you looking for?"


    In the half-light, he saw her face change. The mask of confidence she had worn so carefully fell away, revealing something deep, personal, and painful beneath, meant for no one else. Kismet sighed, and in that silent, high space, her face, barely illuminated by the dim light of the flashlight, became particularly vulnerable. She slowly sank to the cold, stony floor of the tunnel, leaning against the wall. "My uncle... He disappeared here three months ago," she began. "He was an archaeologist, researching ancient underground structures in Moscow. In his last letter, he wrote that he had discovered something incredible. Something related to these symbols and ancient artifacts."


    "And you¡¯re trying to find him?" Mark asked, bewildered by the reality unfolding before him.


    "Yes. But that¡¯s not all..." she showed him the fallen medallion. "This is the only thing I have left of him. An ancient medallion with the same symbols."


    Mark looked at her closely. In the dim light of the flashlight, he saw her not as a mysterious stranger but as a person immersed in the deep darkness of losing a loved one, desperately navigating the labyrinth of her grief in search of answers.


    "Tell me everything," he gently urged. "From the very beginning."


    And in the unchanging darkness of the underground tunnel, surrounded by ancient mysteries and the whispers of bygone eras, they began a long conversation that would change both of them...

 Chapter 5

    In the dim light of the flashlight, which, like a weary sentinel, guarded its tiny patch of darkness amid the century-old dust and dampness of the dungeon, Kismet continued her story. Her voice echoed off the walls like an echo from the past, mingling with the drops of water that monotonously fell somewhere deep in the tunnel.


    "My uncle was not just an archaeologist," she began, pulling out a worn photograph from her pocket, showing a middle-aged man with a penetrating gaze and a neatly trimmed beard. "He was obsessed with the idea of an ancient underground civilization beneath Moscow. He believed that all these tunnels were not just engineering communications but part of a vast complex built long before the city was founded, where the first bell rang in Red Square."


    Mark examined the photograph closely, noting how the man''s features mirrored Kismet''s own¡ªthose same piercing eyes, that same determined chin. "And what did he find?" he asked, handing the photograph back.


    "For the last three years, he worked on deciphering these symbols," Kismet said, running her hand along the cold surface of the wall, where strange signs emerged in the light of the flashlight. "He said they resembled ancient writing but did not match any known alphabet. And then..." she paused, as if gathering her thoughts.


    At that moment, a strange sound echoed from deep within the tunnel¡ªlike metal scraping against stone. Mark instinctively looked in that direction but saw only the endless darkness of the corridor.


    "We need to move on," Kismet whispered, rising. "His notes mentioned a large hall ahead. There should be something important there."


    They pressed forward, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness. The tunnel, like a living organism, gradually widened, slowly revealing its embrace. Soon they noticed that the walls here were different¡ªsmoother, as if polished by time. The symbols on them became increasingly frequent and complex.


    "Look!" Mark suddenly exclaimed, pointing to a small niche in the wall. Inside lay an old leather bag covered in dust. Kismet rushed to it, trembling hands unbuckling the cracked straps.


    "This is his," she whispered, pulling a small notebook from the bag''s depths. "His field diary."


    Mark stepped closer, illuminating the pages with the flashlight from his phone. The handwriting was small but legible, the pages filled with diagrams and sketches of symbols. The last entry was dated three months earlier:


    "January 15. I think I finally understood the meaning of the central symbol. It''s not just a sign¡ªit''s a key. Everything indicates that there is something beneath the city that is more than just a system of tunnels. The ancient builders left something here... something that could change our understanding of history. I must descend deeper. If I am right, the main hall should be..."


    The entry ended abruptly.


    "There''s something else here," Mark noticed, as something gleamed at the bottom of the bag in the flashlight''s beam. It was an antique compass with a copper casing, but its needle pointed not north but off to the side.


    "This is not an ordinary compass," Kismet whispered, lifting it. "Look at the symbols around the edge. They are the same as on the walls."


    Suddenly, a dull thud sounded somewhere ahead, followed by the sound of crumbling stones. Mark instinctively pressed Kismet against the wall, shielding her with his body. The air was thick with the smell of dampness and something else¡ªancient, forgotten.


    "Is someone there?" he whispered, peering into the darkness.


    "No," Kismet replied, her voice trembling. "It''s the system. The tunnels have a life of their own. My uncle wrote about this¡ªthey seem to breathe, to move. Some passages only open at certain times."


    They continued their path, now more cautiously. The compass in Kismet''s hands glowed faintly, its needle confidently pointing forward. The tunnel began to slope gently downwards, and the air grew increasingly humid and heavy.


    "Tell me more about your uncle," Mark asked, trying to distract them both from the oppressive silence. "How did he start these investigations?"


    Kismet paused, as if gathering her thoughts. "It started in the nineties," she finally said. "Back then, he worked at the Historical Museum, dealing with ancient artifacts. One day, he came across a strange item¡ªa medallion, similar to the one I have. It was found during the demolition of an old house on Maroseika..."


    Her story was interrupted as the tunnel ahead widened sharply into a spacious hall. In the light of their flashlights, they saw something that took their breath away. The walls of the hall were covered with a complex weave of symbols forming whimsical patterns. In the center stood a stone structure resembling an altar or pedestal.


    "My God," Mark breathed, directing the beam of his flashlight at the walls. "This is incredible."


    Kismet slowly approached the central pedestal. Its surface was engraved with a complex diagram resembling a map. In the center was an indentation that perfectly matched the shape of the medallion.


    "This is what he was looking for," she whispered, pulling out the medallion. "It''s not just an ornament¡ªit''s a key."


    Mark noticed her hands trembling as she brought the medallion closer to the indentation. "Wait," he gently touched her shoulder. "Are you sure it''s safe?"


    Kismet turned to him, and in the dim light of the flashlight, he saw in her eyes the reflection of the same obsession that had been evident in her uncle''s photograph. "I need to know what happened to him," she said quietly. "I need to understand what he found here."


    And before Mark could say anything, she placed the medallion into the indentation. There was a soft click, and the medallion fit perfectly into the recess. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the symbols on the walls began to glow with a faint bluish light, as if electric discharges were running across them. The glow intensified, forming whimsical patterns that seemed to spiral toward the center of the hall.


    "Incredible," Mark whispered, unable to tear his gaze from the unfolding scene. The air in the room began to vibrate, filling with a low hum that seemed to emanate from the very walls.


    Kismet stood still, her eyes fixed on the pedestal, where the medallion now pulsed in time with the symbols on the walls. "Look," she pointed to the surface of the pedestal, where new lines began to emerge, forming a complex map.


    "Is this... is this Moscow?" Mark leaned closer, examining the emerging pattern. "But some other..."


    "Ancient," Kismet finished for him. "The way the city looked centuries ago. Look at these lines¡ªthey show a system of tunnels far more complex than we thought."


    Suddenly, the hum grew louder, and part of the wall to their right began to slowly shift, opening a passage that hadn''t been there before. Cold air rushed into the hall, bringing with it the scent of time and secrets.


    "There''s something in there," Kismet directed the beam of her phone flashlight into the newly opened passage. In its light, they saw a small room filled with ancient cabinets and tables covered in centuries of dust.


    They cautiously entered. On one of the tables lay a stack of yellowed papers, written in small handwriting. Kismet carefully picked up the top sheet.


    "This is his handwriting," her voice trembled. "My uncle was here."


    Mark approached one of the cabinets, which contained dozens of folders with documents and old photographs. "Looks like a research archive," he said, carefully sifting through the papers.


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    "Everything is here," Kismet began to read the entries. "All his research, all his findings... Look, here are the notes from the first expedition in the nineties."


    She pulled out a worn notebook and opened it:


    "September 12, 1993. Today everything changed. What we discovered during the excavations on Maroseika exceeds all my expectations. The medallion is just the beginning. The symbols on it indicate the existence of an ancient system, far more complex and advanced than we could have imagined. Moscow is built on a foundation of secrets, and I am only beginning to understand their scale. The authorities must not learn about this, at least not yet. Too many people are interested in keeping these secrets buried. But I cannot stop. Every new symbol, every deciphered inscription brings me closer to the truth. Something ancient is awakening beneath the streets of the city, and I must find out what it is..."


    Kismet turned the page, but the next entries were blurred by moisture, making the text nearly unreadable. "There must be something else here," she continued searching among the papers.


    Meanwhile, Mark discovered an old camera and a box of film on one of the shelves. "Look," he held one of the photographs up to the light. It captured a moment from the excavation: a group of people in work clothes standing around some object partially hidden by earth.


    "This is from the 1993 expedition," Kismet examined the photograph. "There''s my uncle, and next to him... next to him is a man in a suit. I don''t know him, but according to the records, problems started after he appeared."


    Suddenly, the lights of their flashlights began to flicker, and the hum coming from the main hall changed pitch. "Something is happening," Mark turned toward the exit.


    "We need to grab the documents," Kismet began quickly stuffing the papers into her bag. "There are answers to all the questions here, but we have little time."


    They hurried back to the main hall, where the symbols on the walls now pulsed with a threatening intensity. The medallion in the pedestal vibrated more strongly.


    "We need to take it," Kismet reached for the medallion, but Mark grabbed her hand.


    "Wait! We don''t know what might happen..."


    At the moment Kismet''s fingers touched the medallion, the space around them seemed to shudder. The symbols on the walls flared with blinding light, then began to fade one by one, like stars before dawn. The medallion yielded surprisingly easily, as if it longed to return to its owner.


    "Run!" Mark shouted, grabbing Kismet by the hand. The vaults of the dungeon began to tremble, small stones cascading from above, heralding a potential collapse.


    They dashed toward the exit from the hall, weaving through corridors that now seemed entirely different¡ªas if the very geometry of space had changed after the activation of the ancient mechanism. Kismet held the bag of documents tightly to her chest, while the medallion, clutched in her palm, continued to emit a faint glow, as if indicating the way.


    "Left!" she shouted, suddenly pulling Mark by the hand. In the next moment, part of the ceiling behind them collapsed, blocking their way back.


    They ran, gasping from the dust and tension, until they finally saw a familiar turn leading to the exit. One last push¡ªand they found themselves on the surface, falling to their knees in the rain-soaked grass. A dull crash sounded behind them¡ªthe entrance to the dungeon had finally collapsed.


    "Are you okay?" Mark turned to Kismet, who was still clutching their find tightly.


    "Yes... yes, I think so," she slowly relaxed her fingers, examining the ancient artifact. In the moonlight, it was clear that the symbols on its surface had changed¡ªsome lines had become clearer, while others had almost disappeared.


    "We need to get out of here," Mark helped her up. "People will be here soon¡ªsuch a noise surely attracted attention."


    They quickly left the site of the collapse, dissolving into the night streets of Moscow. Only when they reached the safety of a small 24-hour caf¨¦ could they finally catch their breath and examine their findings.


    Kismet carefully laid out the saved documents on the table. "Look," she pointed to one of the entries dated September 1993:


    "Something strange happened today. After the discovery of the medallion, a man arrived at our excavation, introducing himself as an employee of the Ministry of Culture. Georgy Pavlovich Severov¡ªso he named himself. But something about him is unsettling. His interest in our findings seems too personal, especially his fascination with the symbols on the medallion and their possible connection to ancient maps of the dungeons. After his visit, I noticed surveillance. Someone is clearly watching the expedition. I had to move the most important finds to a secure location. I''m afraid we''ve touched on something greater than just an archaeological mystery. These symbols form a system, a message. But who is it intended for? And why now?


    P.S. Today I received a strange letter. No signature, just a symbol¡ªthe same as on the medallion. The letter contained coordinates and a warning: ''Some secrets should remain buried. For the greater good.''"


    Mark studied the entries closely. "This Severov... the name seems familiar. I think I encountered him in old newspaper archives when I was working on an article about the Moscow subway construction."


    "Really?" Kismet looked up from the papers. "What do you know about him?"


    "Not much. He held some position in the ministry in the nineties but then suddenly disappeared from the public eye. The last mention of him I found was dated 1995¡ªjust when strange events began in the subway..."


    Kismet pulled out the photograph showing a man in a suit next to her uncle. "That''s him. I remember that day, even though I was very little. My uncle came home very anxious, writing something in his study all night. A week later, he began preparing a hiding place for his finds."


    She turned the page of the diary:


    "September 15, 1993. Severov came to the excavation again. This time he was accompanied by plainclothes people¡ªclearly not archaeologists. They were interested in a specific area, as if they knew exactly what they were looking for. Something is not right here. The story of the medallion is much deeper than it appears at first glance. Today I found a mention of a similar artifact in old monastery records from the 17th century. It spoke of ''keys to the underground city'' and ''keepers of the seal.'' Tomorrow, I''m meeting Father Mikhail from the Novospassky Monastery¡ªhe promised to show me some ancient documents. I hope this sheds light on the mystery of the symbols."


    "September 16, 1993. The meeting with Father Mikhail turned out to be more significant than I could have anticipated. The old monk led me to the ancient library of the monastery, where outsiders are rarely allowed. Among the yellowed manuscripts, he showed me a document dated 1666¡ªthe ''Tale of the Underground City and Its Keepers.'' According to these records, there existed an entire network of secret shelters and temples beneath Moscow, created long before the city was founded. They were guarded by a brotherhood¡ªthe ''Keepers of the Seal.'' They used special symbols to designate safe paths and secret entrances. The medallion we found, apparently, was one of the keys to activate ancient mechanisms. But the most astonishing thing¡ªFather Mikhail hinted that the descendants of these keepers still exist, continuing their service. They hide among ordinary people, sometimes holding quite high positions."


    Kismet paused her reading and looked at Mark. "Now it¡¯s clear why Severov appeared. They knew about the medallion. They were waiting for it to be found. But why?" Mark pondered, turning the cup of cold coffee in his hands. "What is so important about these dungeons and monks?"


    "I think the answer is here," Kismet pulled out another document, this time not a diary entry but some official report. "This is a geological study conducted in the early nineties. Look at these data¡ªanomalous readings of the electromagnetic field at certain points under the city. And they all form some pattern."


    Suddenly, a shadow flitted past the caf¨¦ window, startling them both. But it was just a late passerby.


    "We need to find a safe place," Mark said. "Where we can calmly study all the documents."


    Kismet nodded, gathering the papers. "I have an idea. But first, we need to check something else." She took out the medallion and placed it on the table next to a map of modern Moscow. In the dim light of the caf¨¦, the symbols on its surface seemed to faintly shimmer, as if reacting to the proximity of the map.


    "Look," she began to move the medallion over the map. "Some symbols become brighter in certain places. As if it is searching for something."


    Mark leaned closer, their heads almost touching. Kismet smelled of something fresh, like a sea breeze mixed with the aroma of old books. He caught himself thinking that this scent strangely calmed and excited him at the same time.


    "Here," her voice pulled him from his thoughts. The medallion stopped over the Kitai-Gorod area. "Here the symbols glow the brightest."


    "But this is..." Mark squinted at the map spread out on the worn tablecloth of the caf¨¦. "This is the territory of the old trading complex. It''s being reconstructed into some elite club now."


    "Exactly," Kismet smiled, and a gleam of excitement appeared in her eyes. "And in three days, a closed event will take place there¡ªa grand masquerade ball for the city elite. And among the invited guests will be a person who may know more about my uncle''s disappearance. Georgy Serov."


    "Serov?" Mark recalled the name from the diary, as if awakening from a long sleep. "The same man from the Ministry of Culture who came to the excavation after the discovery of the medallion?" The waitress in a faded apron refilled their cold coffee for the third time. "Yes," Kismet pulled out a fresh printout of the social chronicle. The contrast between the old documents and modern printing seemed almost sacrilegious. In the photograph, amidst the loud headlines about the closed event, was a tall man with an authoritative face and a cold gaze. "After all these years of silence, he has reappeared in public. Now he presents himself as a major developer involved in the reconstruction of historical buildings in central Moscow," her fingers tapped on the table, beating an uneven rhythm like a drum heralding a storm. "But I¡¯m sure it¡¯s just a cover. According to my uncle''s notes, he wrote about him with fear, and he was interested not in the buildings themselves but in what lies beneath them."


    Mark rubbed his nose thoughtfully, his gaze darting to the excavation papers spread out on the table. The dim light of the old fluorescent lamp gave their makeshift headquarters a surreal quality. "So what now? What¡¯s our plan?"


    Kismet stood up from the table, her silhouette reflected in the caf¨¦ window, overlapping with the night cityscape. "A plan?" she bitterly smiled, and in that smile was all the determination accumulated over the years. "Over the past five years, I¡¯ve compiled an entire file on Severov''s past. Every appearance, every deal, every project¡ªthese are all threads in one big