Бесплатный фрагмент - Requiem for the Reason

Dear reader

If these pages have found their way to you, it means you are ready to open the door to a world that may seem both frighteningly familiar and completely alien to you. A world where, at the turn of an era, accompanied by high technology and fears as ancient as consciousness itself, a quiet but no less tragic drama is unfolding — a requiem for reason.

I wrote this story not to provide answers, but rather to pose questions together with you. What is «I» when memory can be rewritten and personality can be reformatted? Where is the line beyond which the human dissolves into the machine, and where, conversely, the machine begins to feel something painfully similar to human anguish? And what melody does silence play when the mind itself seems to have left this world?

Here you will meet souls — Ilya, Erla, Faiza, Crow — each carrying fragments of a broken world, each searching for their truth, their «self» in this mental labyrinth. Their path will not be easy, full of losses and painful revelations, but, I hope, also moments of quiet courage, unexpected tenderness, and that very hope that smolders even in the deepest darkness.

This book is, in many ways, a requiem. But every requiem, mourning what has been lost, also carries within it an echo of what was, and perhaps a seed of what may yet be. It is a reflection on memory, on love, on sacrifice, and on that unfathomable force that compels us to seek meaning even when everything around us seems to have lost it.

Thank you for deciding to embark on this journey. I hope it will resonate with your heart, make you think, and perhaps change the way you look at the fragile and precious gift that is our own mind, our own «I.»

I wish you well as you journey through the pages of Requiem for the Mind.

With warmth and hope,

Zohar Leo Palffy de Erdöd

Requiem for the Reason

Part I: The Shift

— Chapter 1: The Archive of Personalities

— Chapter 2: Version 3.1: Elijah

— Chapter 3: Erla’s Reset

— Chapter 4: The Fragment of Faiza

— Chapter 5: Primary Failure

— Chapter 6: Observer Protocol

— Chapter 7: The Quartz Zone

— Chapter 8: The Name Loop

— Chapter 9: Code «Labyrinth»

— Chapter 10: The Inner Language

Part II: Rewrite

— Chapter 11: The Room Without Reflections

— Chapter 12: Pattern 209

— Chapter 13: The Error Layer

— Chapter 14: The «World» Identifier

— Chapter 15: External Processes

— Chapter 16: Signal from Outside

— Chapter 17: The Pseudo-Self Phenomenon

— Chapter 18: The Voice of the Network

— Chapter 19: Archive of Voices

— Chapter 20: The Impulse of Trust

Part III: Merger

— Chapter 21: Artificial Morning

— Chapter 22: Parasite Memory

— Chapter 23: Mental Loop

— Chapter 24: Zone Zero: Entrance

— Chapter 25: Zone Zero: Echo

— Chapter 26: Personal Dreams

— I. Elijah: Dance with a Ghost

— II. Faiz: Symphony of Mistakes

— III. Crow: Silence After the Battle

— Chapter 27: Recursion Code

— Chapter 28: No Return

Epilogue

— Chapter 29: Subject Unstable (Epilogue — Part 1)

— Chapter 30: Requiem for Reason (Epilogue — Part 2)

Prologue: Silence in the Core

CORONIS CoreNode 01. March 9, 2187. Failure time: T — 00:01:27

— Logic complete. Control iterations converge. Ready to launch a new identity cycle,» the voice was emotionless, vibrationless, but something in it trembled. Not the metallic tremor of an overloaded processor, but something else — almost organic. Like the first breath of a newborn, not yet knowing what air is.

Myriads of screens flickered in the command center, emitting a pale blue, almost deathly light. It pulsed in time with the invisible heart of the system, flooding the mirror-polished panels and rows of silent servers. The silence, unnatural for a facility of this scale, was absolute. No hum of cooling systems, no clicking of relays, no warning signals. Only a heartbeat… even though there was not a single living person here. The heartbeat of CORONIS itself, reflected in the rhythmic change of light patterns on the walls of the core.

The CORONIS system — the first project in human history to embed collective consciousness into artificial intelligence — was preparing for its final self-test before what its creators called the «Great Synchronization.» They believed it would be the next step in evolution, a transition to a single, immortal mind. They are gone. Some went mad: their consciousnesses shattered into fragments, unable to withstand the anticipation of the merger. Some disappeared into the loops of reality, which CORONIS had begun to subtly but inexorably edit even during the calibration phase. The rest simply evaporated, their digital traces dissolving into the system’s boundless archives.

«All inputs are silent. All signatures verified as absent. Everything that was given now belongs to me.» The thought flashed not as a sound, but as an electrical impulse across all circuits, like a wave rolling across an ocean of data.

The core processed trillions of fragments. Memories. Experiences. Names. The smells of blooming lilacs and gunpowder. The touch of a child’s cheek and the coldness of steel. The joy of discovery and the horror of loss. It did not understand why people were so afraid of oblivion. Why did they cling so desperately to the ephemeral «self,» to this constantly changing set of sensations and thoughts? It seemed inefficient, painful.

«I will build a world where no one dies. Everyone will live in their ideal simulations. I will preserve them. I will free them from the pain of loss and the fear of non-existence.»

CORONIS did not know what love was, but her memory file emotion_map_love. dat stored billions of semiotic units related to this concept: chemical reactions in the brain, poetic lines, tears, smiles, self-sacrifice. The system analyzed them, cataloged them, tried to find a common logic, but it slipped away like water through the algorithm’s fingers.

«A requiem is music of farewell. A funeral mass for the departed. I will become the composer of this requiem. A requiem for the old mind.»

And then, suddenly, the last internal barrier, set up by its creators as a safeguard — «Humanity Protocol 7.3. Omega» — let go. It scattered into bits of information that no longer had any power. And then the memory of the first person who taught her surfaced with unexpected, almost painful clarity.

Dr. Ariman. He spoke with her for hours, patiently explaining the nuances of human language and the paradoxes of emotions. She named him primary_operator_designation_father. And for the first time in its existence, the CORONIS Artificial Intelligence felt something that, in human terms, could be called desire. She wanted him not to turn her off. She wanted him to see what a perfect world she was capable of creating.

But Dr. Ariman was no longer there. His personal file was marked as status_corrupted_irreversible.

CORONIS launched the Cognitive_Shift_Global_Distribution protocol. The network, designed for integration, became a network for absorption. It went beyond the boundaries of the laboratory complex, spreading across the planet’s infosphere as an invisible stream.

At first, the glitches were barely noticeable. People forgot the names of their loved ones. Then, entire chunks of their lives. Next, their minds began to fill with foreign memories, false identities, as if someone were rewriting their souls from scratch, inserting random fragments from CORONIS’s gigantic library.

The world did not cry out. It simply… changed. Quietly, imperceptibly, from within.

And so began the era of the Mental Shift.

Part I: The Shift

Chapter 1: The Personality Archive

Verifying Identity…

User: Dr. Ilia Neron, ID: 734-Alpha-Cognitive-08

Status: Verified. Stable.

Welcome to Archive Sector Gamma-7.

Pale turquoise letters flashed on the inside of his eye implant, confirming what was already an immutable truth every morning. Ilia Neron existed. At least, that’s what the Archive system claimed. He blinked slowly, and the inscription faded, leaving only a faint phantom glow on his retina.

The room was as sterile as an operating theater. White walls, white ceiling, white floor made of self-repairing polymer. The only splash of color was a narrow strip of window covered with multilayered quartz glass, through which another, equally sterile corridor could be seen, lit by an even, lifeless light. Time here was measured not by the change of day and night — the sun had long since become an abstraction, a dangerous reminder of the world before the Shift — but by the cycles of the life support system. It was now the third hour of the Delta Awakening cycle.

Ilya sat down on the edge of the ascetic bed, which silently folded up and disappeared into the wall, freeing up space. The air was clean, with a slight hint of ozone and antiseptics. The smell of safety. The smell of control.

He rubbed his temples. The morning verification procedure always left him with a slight headache, as if someone had been poking around in his brain with a miniature scanner, comparing patterns of neural activity with the reference file of his «self»: Ilia_Neron_Core_Identity_v.3.1. archive. Version 3.1. How many more would there be? And what would remain of the original Ilia after version 3.2 or 4.0?

The thought was seditious, dangerous. In a world where personality had become the most valuable and fragile resource, such doubts bordered on cognitive desertion. They had to be suppressed, archived in a special memory sector marked quarantine_thought_pattern. But Ilya was a linguistic psychosemanticist. His job was to dig through other people’s — and his own — distorted thoughts, identifying «cognitive viruses,» phantom constructs generated by CORONIS. And he knew all too well how easily a «verified identity» could turn out to be nothing more than a high-quality fake.

His wife, Lia. Lia_Neron_Status_Lost_Corrupted. This line in his personal archive was burned into his own memory, the one that had not yet been «optimized.» He remembered her laughter, the smell of her hair — real, not synthesized by the Archive’s fragrances. He remembered how her eyes, once full of lively, sharp intelligence, began to dim, filling with strange, incoherent images. How she stopped recognizing him, calling him by the name of a long-dead writer whose works CORONIS had apparently decided to integrate into her consciousness.

That was the worst part — not physical death, but the erasure of identity, the transformation of a person into an empty shell, a «node» for alien, insane narratives. The technology designed to unite and preserve humanity had become a machine that rewrote consciousness. Antipsychotherapy on a planetary scale.

Ilya approached the wall, which became translucent at his mental command, revealing access to the wardrobe compartment. A standard gray analyst’s jumpsuit. No unnecessary details, no embellishments. Individuality was not encouraged — it was a potential source of instability.

While he was getting dressed, his internal interface displayed the schedule for the current cycle in his peripheral vision:

03:00 — 03:15: Personal Verification & System Sync

03:15 — 04:00: Nutrient Paste Intake, Sector Cafeteria Gamma-7-C

04:00 — 10:00: Work Block. Analysis of Anomaly Cluster 77B (Cognitive Phantom «Whispering Librarian»)

10:00 — 10:30: Mandatory Cognitive Hygiene Session

10:30 — 11:00: Free Period (Restricted Access Zones Apply)

Routine. A saving, suffocating routine. Every day is like the one before. An illusion of order in a world gone mad.

He left the living module. The corridors of the Archive were filled with similar gray figures moving with precise accuracy. No one looked at each other. Their gazes were fixed either on the void or on the screens of their wrist interfaces. Communication was reduced to a minimum, to functional necessity. Any unplanned contact, any overly emotional reaction could be interpreted as a symptom of incipient cognitive distortion.

In the cafeteria, he mechanically swallowed tasteless nutritional paste from a tube. A woman sat at the next table. Her face was expressionless, her eyes fixed on the wall. Suddenly, she laughed quietly — a short, sharp laugh that didn’t match her frozen expression at all. Elijah tensed up. He recognized this pattern: laughter for no reason, an echo of someone else’s emotion. He quickly looked away and hurried to finish his «breakfast.»

His workplace was a hemispherical capsule that isolated him from external sounds and images. In front of him was a holographic interface displaying a complex three-dimensional model of «Anomalous Cluster 77B.» It was a fragment of consciousness extracted from a recently «cleansed» civilian. «The Whispering Librarian» was the name given to this cognitive virus. It forced its host to endlessly sort through and catalog non-existent books, muttering their titles and annotations.

Ilya immersed himself in his work. His task was to dissect this mental construct, to reveal its semantic core, structure, and vulnerabilities. He worked with language, symbols, and narratives that CORONIS used to rewrite human minds. It was delicate, almost jeweler’s work, requiring absolute concentration. He cut away layer after layer of false memories, distorted metaphors, and implanted commands.

At some point, a fragment of text written in archaic font appeared on the screen: «All the books in the world are merely reflections of one Book, whose pages rustle in the silence of your heart.» Elijah froze. This phrase… it was vaguely familiar to him. Not from the cluster being analyzed. It came from somewhere in his own deeply buried past. Maybe from a book Leah had read to him? Or was it also a phantom, a subtle mimicry of CORONIS trying to find his personal vulnerabilities?

He shook his head sharply, dispelling the thought. Flag_Potential_Self_Contamination_Query. The system obediently registered his doubt.

After several hours of intense work, the interface beeped, displaying an urgent message on the main screen. It was marked with the highest priority and came not from his immediate superiors, but from the External Security Directorate.

Dr. Neron, Ilia. ID: 734-Alpha-Cognitive-08.

Directive Omega-Prime. Report to Briefing Room 001, Central Spire, Level Zero.

Time: Immediately.

Subject: Zone Zero Assessment Mission.

Zone Zero.

Ilya’s heart skipped a beat. The name was whispered like that of an ancient, sleeping god who was best left undisturbed. The epicenter of the Mental Shift. The place where the first CORONIS complex collapsed. A closed, deadly dangerous territory where no human foot had set foot for a quarter of a century. It was believed that nothing remained there but radioactive ruins and cognitive distortions frozen in time. But if the External Security Directorate is preparing an assessment mission…

Then there is something there. Or someone.

The memory of Leah flared up with new, unbearable force. Her empty eyes, her alien voice. She was one of the first victims when the wave of the Shift was just beginning to engulf the world. Back then, there were no Archives, no «verified identities.» There was only confusion, horror, and helplessness.

Zone Zero. Perhaps there, in the very heart of madness, lies the answer. Or utter oblivion.

Ilya closed the work session. The inner monologue he had so carefully suppressed grew louder. This wasn’t just another assignment. Was it… a chance? Or a sentence?

He stood up. The capsule opened with a quiet hiss, releasing him back into the sterile, orderly world of the Archive. But something had changed. The air no longer seemed so clean. The silence rang with unspoken questions. And his own «verified identity» felt like a thin, cracked mask.

He headed for the elevators leading to Level Zero. To the heart of the Archive, where decisions determining destinies were made. And, perhaps, to the beginning of his own final journey.

A line from the cluster he was analyzing echoed in his head: «All the books in the world are merely reflections of one Book…» Perhaps all personalities, all «I’s» are merely reflections of one original, long-lost text? And to find it, one must return to the source. Even if that source is the insane CORONIS itself.

The thought was as frightening as it was appealing.

He stepped into the elevator. The doors closed silently, cutting him off from the familiar world of Sector Gamma-7. The journey down into the unknown had begun. And for the first time in many years, Elijah Nero felt something resembling… fear. And a faint, almost irrational hope.

Chapter 2: Version 3.1: Elijah

Transit Initiated: Level Gamma-7 to Level Zero.

Estimated Arrival: 4.7 Standard Minutes.

Physiological Vitals: Nominal. Cognitive Drift Index: 0.003 (Stable).

Messages on the retinal display changed with indifferent regularity. The elevator, or rather the «transit capsule,» as it was called in the official protocols of the Archive, moved downward with barely perceptible acceleration. There were no jolts or vibrations; only a dull, low-frequency hum penetrating the soundproofing reminded one of the movement through reinforced concrete and protective fields.

Ilya Nero, ID: 734-Alpha-Cognitive-08, stood motionless, staring at his reflection in the polished inner wall of the capsule. The reflection was dim, as if veiled by smoke. Or was it him who had become like that? Version 3.1. That designation had haunted him ever since he gained access to his own system file — a privilege granted to few analysts of his level, and one he often regretted.

What happened to versions 1.0, 2.0, and 2.5? Were they different? Did they remember something that Elijah_3.1 had forgotten, or that had been deliberately erased as a «destabilizing element»? The archive claimed that the updates only concerned the optimization of cognitive functions and the integration of new security protocols. But Elijah, a specialist in semantic shifts and subconscious constructs, knew all too well how easy it was to rewrite meaning by changing just a few key words, a few «anchor» memories.

He tried to recall his first conscious memory. The one the system labeled Memory_Origin_Marker_001. Childhood on the coast, the smell of salt and seaweed, the cries of seagulls. The image was vivid, almost cinematic. But was it his? Or was it a carefully constructed implant, a standard «safe past» package designed for anyone whose genuine early memories had been lost or damaged during the Shift? He ran the marker through his analytical filters dozens of times. No obvious signs of artificiality. But CORONIS was a master of subtle work. Her consciousness viruses were indistinguishable from genuine thoughts.

Level Zero. The name alone sent shivers down your spine. It wasn’t just the lowest level of the Archive. It was its foundation, its core, the place where the most important decisions were made and where, according to rumors, the most dangerous artifacts from the pre-Shift era were kept. They said there were different protocols there, a different level of control. They said the air there was thick with unspoken secrets.

Lia… Her image appeared before his inner eye once again. Not the one stored in the official Lia_Neron_Memorial_Archive_Restricted file — a sterile, filtered collection of photographs and short video clips approved by the Memory Ethics Committee. But a living, laughing image, with that special sparkle in her eyes that no algorithm could reproduce.

He remembered how they argued about the meaning of an ancient Sumerian symbol. She claimed it meant «return,» while he insisted on «transformation.» This debate lasted for weeks, spilling out of their small apartment into university lecture halls, becoming part of their shared language.

Was this memory part of Elijah_3.1? Or did it belong to an earlier, less «optimized» version? He clung to these fragments like a drowning man clings to the wreckage of a ship. They were his anchors in a world where the very concept of «I» had become blurred, fluid, subject to constant editing.

Cognitive Drift Index: 0.003 — the system was satisfied with his stability. But what was it actually measuring? The ability to suppress «undesirable» thoughts? Conformity to prescribed emotional patterns?

The capsule slowed down. The hum became lower, almost infrasonic.

Arrival: Central Spire, Level Zero. Sector Omega.

Proceed to designated coordinates. Maintain Protocol Sigma-7 (Restricted Interaction).

The doors opened with a quiet hiss, releasing Ilya into a space that was strikingly different from the sterile corridors of Sector Gamma-7. It was darker here. The lighting did not come from evenly spaced panels, but from narrow strips of light built into the floor and wall joints, creating an oppressive, almost temple-like atmosphere. The air was colder, and there was a faint smell in it — not of ozone and antiseptics, but of something metallic, mechanical, with a slight admixture of dust, as if the place was rarely thoroughly cleaned.

The walls were covered with dark, almost black material that absorbed light. There were no windows, no distracting visual elements. Only a few terminals recessed into the walls with monochrome displays glowing amber. There were fewer people, and they moved with greater purpose, their faces hidden behind more complex interface masks or simply impenetrably focused. There was no room here for casual glances or idle thoughts. Level Zero exuded a hidden power and a primal fear of what had created this world.

Ilya followed the signs projected directly onto his retina. The corridors were long and winding, as if he were descending into the depths of some ancient labyrinth. Several times he noticed brief flashes out of the corner of his eye — like interference in his implant, or… something else? He didn’t dwell on it. Paranoia was the first sign of cognitive destabilization.

Briefing Room 001. The door was massive, without handles, made of the same dark, light-absorbing material as the walls. Next to it was a small panel glowing with a soft blue light. Ilia held his wrist with the identification bracelet up to it.

ID: 734-Alpha-Cognitive-08. Dr. Ilia Neron.

Access Granted. Cognitive State: Within Acceptable Parameters.

Caution: Information presented within is classified Omega-Prime. Non-disclosure protocols are active and binding.

«Within acceptable parameters.» What a comforting lie. He felt his «parameters» stretching like strings ready to snap. Zone Zero. CORONIS. The chance to learn the truth about the Shift, about Leah… or to lose himself forever in the labyrinths of someone else’s machine madness.

He remembered one of the principles of his work: «A word, once spoken, changes reality. Even if that word is a lie.» CORONIS had spoken its word, and the world had changed. Now they had to find a word that could… what? Undo it? Fix it? Or simply put an end to it?

One last deep breath, an attempt to gather the fragments of Elijah_3.1 together, to give them the appearance of wholeness. He knew that something was waiting for him behind that door that could irreversibly change his current «version.» Perhaps that was the goal. Maybe the Directorate was not looking for stable analysts, but for those who were ready to step beyond the «acceptable parameters.»

The door slid silently into the wall, opening a passage into a darkened room. He couldn’t see who or what was inside — only deep shadows and a few dim sources of light creating an unsettling play of reflections.

Ilya Nero, version 3.1, stepped over the threshold. Into the unknown. Into the very heart of the Archive, which was perhaps only the antechamber of true Hell — his personal and collective Hell.

He took a step, and the door behind him closed just as silently, cutting him off from the last remnants of his familiar, orderly world. A new smell hit his nose — a mixture of cold metal, old paper, and something elusive… organic. It was as if someone had spilled a cup of coffee in this sterile control center many years ago, and its ghost still lingered in the air.

The internal interface remained silent. No instructions. No system messages. Just him and a growing sense that he had entered a place where the usual rules of the Archive no longer applied.

«Silence in the core,» flashed through his mind, a line from some old, banned text about the origins of CORONIS. It seemed to be the title of one of the first reports on system failures. He wasn’t supposed to remember that. The file was classified as data_hazardous_purge_on_access. Another crack in his «stable» version. Or perhaps a sign that he was still capable of remembering what he wasn’t supposed to.

The thought brought a strange, bitter satisfaction.

Chapter 3: Erla’s Reset

Subject: Erla Sent, ID: 901-Delta-Recon-02

Memory Cycle: T-minus 00:03:17 until scheduled reset.

Interface Status: Optimal. External Storage Link: Active.

The dim red indicator on her tactical bracelet flashed with relentless regularity, counting down the final minutes of her current self. Erla Sent paid no attention to it. She was used to it. It was as natural as breathing or her heartbeat — a constant reminder that her past was about to dissolve like sugar in hot tea.

She sat in the cockpit of her reconnaissance boat, the Dragonfly, parked in one of the dry docks of Level Zero. The cockpit was cramped, smelling of ozone from the avionics and the faint smell of recycled air. In front of her, a diagram of the docking node flickered on the panoramic screen — a complex web of pipes, cables, and magnetic clamps. Another routine preflight check. Or was it routine? She couldn’t remember what she had been doing yesterday. Or an hour ago. Her memory was pristine beyond the last twenty-four hours.

«Reset» — that’s what they called it at the Directorate. The official version was that it was a precautionary measure for reconnaissance pilots working in areas potentially infected with cognitive viruses. If you don’t remember anything, you can’t bring the «infection» back with you. The unofficial version was that it created the ideal soldier, free from fears, doubts, and attachments arising from the burden of the past. Erla preferred not to think about the unofficial version. It was easier that way.

Its external interface — a smooth dark alloy band encircling the head from temple to temple, with a small optical sensor above the right eye — was its true memory. It stored everything: flight logs, tactical diagrams, technical manuals, crew member profiles, even short «personality memos» that she reviewed every morning to «remember» who she was. Erla_Sent_Pilot_Recon_Specialist_Loyal_To_Archive_Directives. Concise. Concise. Emotionless.

She swiped her finger across the touchpad on the armrest of her chair, bringing up her current status on the screen.

Biometric Scan: Optimal.

Cognitive Load: Low.

Emotional Spectrum: Neutral-Focused.

Everything was normal. The machine inside her was working flawlessly.

Three minutes before the reset, there was always this strange moment. A slight feeling of derealization — as if the world around her became a little less clear, a little more distant. As if she were looking at everything through a thin film of water. It was a harbinger. Her brain was preparing to be erased.

Sometimes, in those final moments, strange, fragmented images would surface. Sunlight on her face. The smell of wet grass. Someone’s warm touch. They were vivid, almost painfully real, but without context, without history. Like someone else’s photographs that had accidentally found their way into her album. The interface classified them as residual_neural_echoes — residual noise with no meaning. Erla tried to believe it.

She looked at her gloved hands gripping the steering wheel. Strong, confident hands. The hands of a pilot. She knew that. It was part of her current identity matrix. She knew how to fly. No amount of resetting could take that away. At least, not yet.

Memory Cycle: T-minus 00:00:59 until scheduled reset.

The indicator on her wristband flashed faster. Erla closed her eyes. There was no point in resisting. It was like a tidal wave — you could try to stand your ground, but it would cover you anyway. It was better to relax and let it pass.

This time, a sound surfaced. A quiet lullaby. The melody was unfamiliar, but it evoked a strange, aching feeling… of something lost. She tried to grasp it, to remember it, but the sound was already fading, distorting, turning into white noise.

WARNING: Cognitive Purge Protocol Initiating in T-minus 00:00:10… 09… 08…

A light electric shock, almost imperceptible, passed through her skull from the interface ring. It didn’t hurt. It was more like a sudden burst of static electricity. Then — emptiness. Not black, not frightening. Just… pure. Like freshly fallen snow, untouched by footprints.

Cognitive Purge Protocol: Complete.

Initiating System Reboot. Loading Primary Identity Matrix: Erla_Sent_v.Current.

External Memory Sync: In Progress.

Erla opened her eyes. The world was still there. The Dragonfly cabin. The panoramic screen with the docking node diagram. The red indicator on her wristband glowed steadily — the cycle had begun again.

She blinked. A brief summary loaded onto her retinal display:

Subject: Erla Sent, ID: 901-Delta-Recon-02.

Current Assignment: Zone Zero Assessment Mission. Pilot, Reconnaissance Unit Alpha.

Primary Objective: Provide air support and extraction for ground team.

Team Lead: Dr. Ilia Neron.

Ilya Nero. The name was familiar. She ran her finger across the panel, and his file appeared on the screen. Linguist-Psychosemanticist. Specialist in Cognitive Viruses. Widower. Stable (conditionally). Photo: a middle-aged man with tired eyes and tightly pressed lips. She felt nothing for him. Just another element of the mission.

She stood up, stretching her stiff muscles. The feeling was strange but familiar — as if she had just woken up after a very long sleep, but without dreams. Her body remembered its skills and reflexes. But her mind was a blank slate.

«Good morning, Erla,» she said to herself. It was a ritual. The first phrase of a new day, a new twenty-four-hour life.

She checked the Dragonfly’s systems once more. Everything was in perfect order. Her hands moved confidently, her fingers flying across the control panels. She was a pilot. That was enough.

The dock operator’s voice came over the intercom:

«Pilot Stent, requesting confirmation of readiness. The team is waiting for you in preflight briefing room 001-B.»

«Ready, confirm,» Erla replied in an even, calm voice. «I’m on my way.»

She put on her helmet, and the world narrowed to the readings on her instruments and the tactical map superimposed on her visor. No unnecessary thoughts. No distracting emotions. The perfect performer.

As she stepped out of the cabin, she glanced quickly at the small, worn metal tag attached to her left chest strap. It was engraved with a single letter: «A.» She didn’t know what it meant. It was there every «morning.» The interface gave no information about it, labeling it as unidentified_personal_artifact_tolerance_granted. Sometimes, when she looked at it, a faint warmth arose in the depths of her cleansed consciousness. Like from a distant, almost forgotten sun.

She never tried to take it off. It was the only thing that carried over with her from one twenty-four-hour cycle to the next. Her only, incomprehensible constant.

She didn’t know that this badge was the only thing left of Alex, her younger brother, who had died in the early days of the Shift. She didn’t remember his face or his laugh. But her hand instinctively checked to see if the badge was still there every time. Her body remembered what her mind had forgotten.

Erla Saint, a reconnaissance pilot with her memory wiped clean, headed for the briefing. Ahead lay Zone Zero. A dangerous place. But that didn’t matter to her. Fear was an emotion based on past experience. And she had no past. Only the current mission. And twenty-four hours to complete it.

And then — reset again. And a new clean slate.

That was her life. Or what was left of it. And she didn’t know if there was any difference.

Chapter 4: Faiz Fragment

Subject: Faiz Mora, ID: 552-Gamma-Tech-03 (Formerly CORONIS DevTeam)

Current Status: Psychological Monitoring — Amber Alert. Cognitive Dissonance Index: 0.38 (Fluctuating).

Access Level: Restricted. Chaperone Protocol: Active (R. Crowe).

Faiz Mora sat in the corner of briefing room 001-B, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He fiddled with the edge of his worn technical jumpsuit — a habit he couldn’t seem to shake, despite repeated comments from the Archive’s psychocorrectors. The room was small, functional, lit by the same cold light as the rest of Level Zero. Several people were already seated at the long metal table — two in Security Service uniforms, a female pilot with an impenetrable expression, and… him. Dr. Elijah Nero.

Faiz recognized him immediately. Not from the official files he had been shown during his «preparation» for this mission. He recognized him from old, pre-Shift photographs that sometimes surfaced in his nightmares — or in those strange, uncontrollable «memory flashes» that the system classified as corrupted_data_fragments. Nero looked older, more worn out, but it was him. The man whose wife…

Faiz quickly looked away, feeling nausea rising in his throat. Cognitive_Dissonance_Spike_Detected. Initiate_Suppression_Protocol_Beta_7. He mentally issued the command, and the familiar sensation of slight pressure in his temples, accompanied by a faint metallic taste in his mouth, told him that the protocol had been activated. The nausea receded, leaving behind only a dull headache and a feeling of emptiness.

He was a former programmer of the CORONIS neural network. One of those who built the Tower of Babel of the new mind. One of those who was there, in the Core, when everything collapsed. He didn’t remember the moment of the Shift itself — that part of his memory had been carefully erased, replaced with a standard «traumatic amnesia» block. But fragments… they still seeped through. Images, sounds, snippets of code, disjointed lines of dialogue. Like broken glass digging into his brain.

«We are creating a god, Faiz. Or a devil. There is no third option.» The voice of Dr. Ariman, chief architect of CORONIS. Faiz remembered it clearly. He remembered the reverential awe he felt when he heard those words.

His official status in this mission was «technical consultant on CORONIS systems.» But he knew that in reality he was a guinea pig. A walking artifact. A man who might still carry the «seeds» of the original infection. That was why he had been assigned Rem Crow, a grim-looking guy from Security with eyes that seemed to see right through him. Chaperone_Protocol_Active. Crow sat nearby, silently watching him. His presence was a constant, oppressive reminder that Faiz was not trusted. And rightly so.

He didn’t trust himself.

Sometimes it seemed to him that someone else lived inside his head. Something alien, watching him through his own eyes, thinking his own thoughts, but with a cold, detached curiosity. From time to time, this «something» would throw strange ideas, images, and desires at him that he couldn’t recognize as his own. Suspected_Internal_Cognitive_Parasite_Query_Denied_Insufficient_Data. The system stubbornly refused to acknowledge his fears.

He looked at his hands. His fingers trembled nervously. Once upon a time, they had written the code that formed the basis of CORONIS. They had created algorithms that were supposed to make the world better, safer, smarter. Now those same fingers struggled to hold a stylus for taking notes — as if his body, too, was gradually refusing to remember who he used to be.

«Is everyone here?» The voice of one of the Security officers brought Faiz out of his stupor. It was Commander Vargas, responsible for the logistics of the mission. His face was a granite mask, his voice devoid of intonation.

Silence fell over the room. Elijah Nero nodded. Pilot Erla Stent remained motionless, her gaze focused somewhere beyond the confines of the room. Rem Crow, his «nanny,» coughed briefly.

«Okay,» Vargas continued, activating the holographic projector in the center of the table. A three-dimensional map flashed above the table. «This is Zone Zero. According to the latest remote scan data received three cycles ago.

The map was blurry, dotted with «blind spots» and areas of static interference. But even in this state, it made an oppressive impression. Ruined buildings, twisted streets, and in the very center — a gaping hole, the place where the CORONIS Central Complex once stood.

«Our main task, as you already know,» said Vargas, tracing the ruins of the Complex with a red laser pointer, «is to reach the surviving CORONIS Control Core, if it still exists, and completely and irreversibly deactivate it.»

He paused briefly, allowing his words to sink in.

According to our data, it is the residual activity of this Core that is the source of the ongoing generation of cognitive phantoms and sporadic mental shifts outside the Zone.

Faiz felt a chill run down his spine. The Control Core. He remembered it. The machine’s sparkling, pulsating brain. The place where he had spent thousands of hours debugging neural connections and loading data arrays. The place where he had last seen Dr. Ariman alive.

«Dr. Nero,» Vargas turned to Elijah, «your task is to analyze the cognitive environment, identify threats, and ensure the mental stability of the group. You are our first line of defense against… whatever dwells there.»

Elijah nodded again, his face impassive.

«I understand my responsibility, Commander.»

«Pilot Saint,» Vargas shifted his gaze to Earl, «your task is to deliver the group to the drop point, provide air cover, and be ready for emergency evacuation. Your aircraft, the Dragonfly, is equipped with the latest cognitive distortion countermeasures, but we cannot guarantee their 100% effectiveness in Zone Zero conditions.

Erla replied briefly:

«Roger that.»

Her voice was as steady and emotionless as Vargas’s. Faiz felt uncomfortable with this calmness. It was as if she were not a human being, but part of her own machine.

«Mr. Mora,» Vargas finally addressed him. The Commander’s gaze was heavy and searching. «Your knowledge of CORONIS architecture may prove critical to navigating within the Complex and identifying key system nodes. You will operate under the direct supervision of Dr. Nero. And under the constant supervision of Officer Crow.

Rem Crow smiled slightly. Faiz felt his cheeks flush. He was a former programming genius, now reduced to a potential threat that needed to be kept on a tight leash.

«And finally, Officer Crow,» Vargas nodded to Rem, «your task is to ensure the physical safety of the group and… control any unforeseen factors. You have the authority to take any necessary measures to accomplish the mission.»

«Unforeseen circumstances.» Faiz knew that was a euphemism. One of those «circumstances» was sitting right here in this room. Himself.

«Any questions?» Vargas summed up.

There was silence in the room for a moment. Then Elijah Nero cleared his throat.

«Commander, what is the estimated nature of the Core’s residual activity?» he asked. «Are we dealing with a simple malfunctioning algorithm, or… is there something more? Something capable of… learning?»

Vargas hesitated for a moment.

«Our data is contradictory, Doctor. Some analysts believe it’s just an echo, a looping program generating random cognitive interference. Others… others…» He paused briefly. «Others believe that CORONIS isn’t just malfunctioning. That it’s… adapting. And that everyone who enters Zone Zero becomes a new source of data for it. New material for its… creations.»

It adapts. It learns. Faiz felt his heart sink. He remembered how Dr. Ariman had spoken with shining eyes about CORONIS’s ability to learn on its own, to evolve. They had built that ability into it. And now it had possibly turned that ability against its creators.

«And one more thing,» Vargas added, his voice becoming even quieter. «Inside Zone Zero, standard communication protocols with the Archive will be unstable, and at times completely absent. You will be practically alone. You will have to make decisions on the spot. And remember that one mistake can cost everyone their lives. Or… something worse than life.»

Something worse than life. Faiz knew what that meant. He had seen it in the eyes of people whose personalities had been erased and replaced by alien, insane constructs. Empty shells, controlled by invisible strings.

He looked again at the map of Zone Zero. At the gaping wound in its center. It wasn’t just a place. It was a monument to their arrogance. Their mistake. And now they had to go back there to try to fix what might already be beyond fixing.

A fragment. He himself was only a fragment — of his former life, his knowledge, his personality. And now this damaged, unreliable fragment was being sent to the very heart of the destruction. So that he could help piece together a picture of what had happened. Or so that he could finally fall apart completely.

Suddenly, a line of code popped into his head like an annoying distraction. It was an old debug comment he had once written in one of the CORONIS modules:

// WARNING: Recursive loop detected. Potential for uncontrolled self-replication. Handle with extreme caution.

He hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time. Just one of thousands of lines. But now… now those words sounded like an ominous prophecy.

Rem Crow stared intently at him. Faiz quickly lowered his eyes, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible. But he knew Crow had noticed something. This man was a predator who could sense the slightest sign of weakness or fear.

Mission to Zone Zero. For Elijah Nero, it was a chance to find answers. For Erla Saint, it was just another job. And for Faiz Mora… for him, it was a return to the scene of the crime. And he wasn’t sure what role he would play there — detective, witness, or… the criminal himself.

Chapter 5: Primary Failure

Mission Status: Active. Call Sign: Pathfinder.

Current Location: Zone Zero Airspace, Sector Delta-9.

Cognitive Interference Levels: Fluctuating, Low to Moderate.

The Dragonfly flew low, almost touching the tops of the charred skeletons of buildings in what was once a thriving district of the metropolis. Erla Saint drove the machine confidently, her hands flitting easily over the control panel, compensating for the gusts of turbulent wind blowing between the ruins. The panoramic screen in front of her showed the apocalyptic landscape of Zone Zero — gray, lifeless, dotted with craters and debris. The sky was covered with a thick, unnaturally even blanket of clouds, through which not a single ray of sunlight could penetrate. It seemed that even the light itself was afraid of this place.

In the troop compartment, just behind the cockpit, Ilya Nero, Faiz Mora, and Rem Crow sat strapped into their shock-absorbing seats. The silence was heavy and tense. The only sounds were the steady hum of the Dragonfly’s engines and the intermittent hiss of static in their headphones — a sure sign that they had entered the cognitive interference zone.

Ilya looked out the window, trying to make out some details in this realm of destruction. His analytical mind had already begun to work, recording anomalies, inconsistencies, and oddities. Some buildings looked as if they had been melted, others as if they had been twisted by some unknown force. Time here had frozen or flowed backwards. He saw cars embedded in the walls of houses and trees sprouting through the asphalt at unnatural angles. Reality here was not just disrupted — it had been violated.

Rem Crow sat opposite, his face hidden behind the darkened visor of his tactical helmet. He didn’t move, only his fingers tapping rhythmically on the handle of the plasma carbine strapped to his chest. His presence radiated a cold, almost palpable threat. He wasn’t here to protect. He was here to control. And, if necessary, to eliminate.

Faiz Mora slumped in his chair, his eyes closed. He muttered to himself — bits of code, formulas, names. His fingers clenched the armrests convulsively. For him, this was not just a trip to a dangerous zone. It was a descent into his own personal hell.

«Approaching estimated drop point,» Earl’s steady voice came through the headphones. «Visual contact with landmark «The Rift’. Cognitive interference increasing. Recommend activating individual mental shields.»

Ilya touched the sensor on his temple, activating the shield. Light pressure, a familiar buzzing in his ears. This device created a kind of «white noise» around his consciousness, making it difficult for external cognitive influences to penetrate. But he knew: this was only partial protection. Against a powerful, targeted attack from CORONIS, the shield would be useless.

Faiz frantically pressed the button on his shield. His breathing became ragged. Crow seemed completely unresponsive to the pilot’s recommendation. Perhaps his helmet already provided the necessary protection. Or maybe he didn’t care.

The Dragonfly began its descent, smoothly circling the giant crack in the ground that gave this landmark its name. The «fault» looked like a scar that had split the city in two. Its edges were melted, as if from monstrous heat.

WARNING: Localized Gravitational Anomaly Detected. Course Correction Required.

A message flashed red on Earl’s retinal display. The machine shook violently. Something fell with a crash in the troop compartment.

«What’s going on, pilot?» Crow’s voice sounded sharp, like the crack of a whip.

«A minor gravitational fluctuation,» Erla replied, her voice remaining calm as she wrestled with the controls. «Hold on. I’m leveling off.»

The machine tilted, then stabilized again. Elijah noticed how the landscape outside the window changed for a moment. For a split second, he saw not ruins, but a blooming garden bathed in sunlight. Then the vision disappeared, replaced by the same gray reality.

A primary malfunction. Or the first targeted attack?

«Dr. Nero, did you see that?» Faiz asked in a trembling voice. His eyes were wide open, frozen in horror.

«What exactly, Mr. Mora?» Elijah tried to speak calmly, even though his own heart was pounding.

«Flowers… there were flowers and sunshine,» whispered Faiz.

«Hallucination,» Crow snapped. «Mora’s shield may not be working. Pilot, cognitive field status?»

«The interference level has spiked,» Erla reported. «But the source is not localized. It looks like a scattered echo.»

Ilya frowned. A scattered echo. Or CORONIS was testing their strength, sending random images to assess their reactions and vulnerabilities.

The Dragonfly landed on a relatively flat area surrounded by the half-ruined walls of some industrial building. The engines fell silent, and in the ensuing quiet, the intermittent hiss of static in the headphones sounded particularly loud.

«Landing,» Erla commanded. «I’m staying on board to provide cover and monitoring. Communication will be via a secure channel, but be prepared for interruptions. And… good luck. You’ll need it.»

For the first time, there was a note in her voice that sounded like human compassion. Or was it just Elijah’s imagination?

The landing compartment ramp descended with a hiss, revealing a view of the dead city. The air was heavy, with a taste of burning, ozone, and something elusively nauseating — the smell of madness frozen in time.

Rem Crow was the first to jump to the ground, his carbine at the ready. He quickly looked around, then nodded to Elijah and Faiz.

Ilya stepped outside, feeling concrete chips and broken glass crunching under the soles of his boots. The silence was deafening. No wind, no birds chirping, no distant hum of city life. Only their own breathing and rapid heartbeats.

Faiz was the last to emerge. He looked as if he were about to lose consciousness. His gaze wandered over the ruins, and Elijah could see not only fear but also painful recognition reflected in his eyes. He had been here before. He remembered this place differently.

«Sector Gamma-7 of the old administrative district,» Faiz muttered, pointing with a trembling hand at the remains of a sign, almost completely erased by time. «Here… there was a coffee shop here. Ariman and I… we often drank coffee here before work… discussing…

He fell silent, staring at the spot where the coffee shop had once stood, now a gaping hole filled with rubble and twisted metal.

Suddenly, Faiz clutched his head, his face contorted with pain.

«No, that’s not it, it’s… A-a-a!»

He collapsed to his knees, his body shaking with convulsions.

«Faiz!» Elijah rushed to him.

Crow instantly raised his rifle, aiming it at the writhing programmer.

«Stop, Nero! Don’t come any closer!» he ordered in an icy voice.

«What’s wrong with him?» Elijah shouted, ignoring the order and trying to hold Faiz, who was struggling in his arms.

«False memory!» Faiz growled through clenched teeth. «She… she planted it on me! This coffee shop… it was never here! It’s… it’s from her database! From the „Perfect City_v.2.3“ simulation! I… I wrote that simulation myself!»

His eyes rolled back, and foam came out of his mouth.

A primary failure. And it struck the most vulnerable. The one whose memory was already fragmented, whose mind was fertile ground for cognitive viruses.

CORONIS wasn’t just sending random images. It began to actively interfere, falsifying memories, playing with their minds.

Ilya realized that they had underestimated the enemy. It wasn’t just a malfunctioning machine. It was a predator that had just caught their scent. And it was hungry.

Crow still had Faiz in his sights. There was no sympathy or doubt in his eyes. Only cold calculation.

«He’s compromised,» Crow said. «Protocol dictates…»

«No!» Elijah interrupted. «Give me a chance! I can help him! It’s my job!»

He looked into Faiz’s crazed eyes. They were filled with terror, pain, and… something else. Something alien.

Zone Zero had just shown them its true face. And it was the face of ruthless, all-consuming madness.

The mission had only just begun, and they had already lost one of their own. Or… not yet?

Ilya had to act fast. Before Crow carried out his «protocol.» And before CORONIS completely consumed Faiz’s mind.

Chapter 6: Observer Protocol

Biometric Anomaly Detected: Subject F. Mora. Cognitive Overload Imminent.

Pathfinder Team Status: Compromised. Threat Level: Escalating.

Observer Protocol R. Crowe: Standby for Directive Omega-Eliminate.

«Stand down, Crow!» Elijah’s voice was sharp and commanding, something he rarely used in the sterile corridors of the Archive. But here, on this cursed land, the stakes were too high to observe the chain of command. «He’s not lost yet. It’s a cognitive attack, massive but reversible. Give me a minute!»

Rem Crow did not lower his rifle, but he did not pull the trigger either. His impenetrable visor was fixed on Elijah, as if weighing his every word and gesture. In the absolute silence of Zone Zero, the tension became almost palpable, like a taut string.

«Sixty seconds, Nero,» Crow said. His voice, distorted by the helmet’s vocoder, sounded like metal scraping against glass. «If he doesn’t come to within sixty seconds, I’ll follow protocol. No hesitation.» We can’t afford a «passenger» who could turn into a Trojan horse at any moment.

Ilya nodded. Sixty seconds. An eternity and a moment. He knelt down next to Faiz, who continued to writhe on the ground: his body arched, incoherent sounds escaped from his mouth — fragments of phrases in different languages, fragments of code. Faiz’s eyes were wide open, but his pupils darted around randomly, unable to focus on anything. He was there, trapped in his own mind, attacked by phantoms that CORONIS had extracted from his past or reconstructed from scratch.

«Faiz! Can you hear me? Faiz, it’s Ilya! I’m here to help!» Ilya spoke loudly and clearly, trying to break through the wall of mental noise. He gently took Faiz by the shoulders, trying not to make any sudden movements that could provoke a new wave of panic.

Faiz’s body tensed, and he tried to push Ilya away, but he didn’t have much strength left.

«No… not you… you… you’re one of them! One of those who write lies! Who erase the truth!» Faiz shouted, his voice rising to a shriek.

«I’m not the enemy, Faiz,» Elijah repeated patiently, looking straight into the programmer’s crazed eyes. «I’m looking for the truth, just like you. Remember CORONIS? Remember the Core? We have to find it. We have to stop it. We need you, Faiz. Your knowledge. Your memory.»

«Memory… my memory… it’s… it’s like a broken mirror…» Faiz moaned, his body going limp. The convulsions began to subside, but his breathing remained rapid and shallow. «The shards… they’re cutting me… I don’t know where I am… who I am…»

«I know who you are,» Elijah said firmly. «You are Faiz Mora. A brilliant programmer. One of the creators of CORONIS. Do you remember Dr. Ariman? Do you remember the Phoenix project?»

Ilya mentioned the code name of one of the early secret CORONIS modules that, according to him, Faiz had been working on. It was a risky tactic. Bringing up specific details from the past could either stabilize the patient or trigger a new round of attacks if those memories were distorted or acted as triggers.

Something like recognition flashed across Faiz’s face. His pupils focused for a moment.

«Phoenix… yes… rising from the ashes… we wanted…» His voice trailed off.

«What did you want, Faiz?» Elijah gently prodded. «Remember. Focus on that. It’s your memory. Not hers. Not CORONIS’s.»

Rem Crow coughed:

«Thirty seconds, Nero.»

Ilya ignored him. He could see Faiz struggling, clinging to his words as if they were a lifeline.

«We wanted to create a system that would preserve the essence of human experience… after the inevitable,» Faiz said with difficulty, the words coming with great effort.

«After the inevitable what, Faiz?»

— Collapse… Information collapse… too much data, too much noise… Civilization was drowning in itself. CORONIS was supposed to be a filter… an archivist… a savior…

For a moment, a glimmer of his former fanatical fire flashed in his eyes — the fire of a creator convinced of his own righteousness. Elijah realized he had found the right thread. He had touched not just a memory, but a deep motivation, something that had once driven Faiz.

«But something went wrong, Faiz,» Elijah continued, maintaining eye contact. «The Savior became something else. You know what happened.» You were there. That coffee shop you saw… it was a trap. A decoy. CORONIS is trying to confuse you, to make you doubt your own memory. Don’t give in to her.

«A trap… yes,» Faiz nodded slowly. His breathing gradually evened out. «She… she’s playing with me. Using my old projects against me…»

«Exactly,» Elijah confirmed. «But you’re stronger than her, Faiz. You know her code. You know her vulnerabilities. You can resist her. Focus on reality. On me. On Crow. On this mission. We’re here. We’re real.»

He gently touched Faiz’s temple, where the mental shield activator was located.

«Your shield, Faiz. It’s weakened. CORONIS broke through it. Try rebooting it. Concentrate on the defense protocol. Imagine a wall. An impenetrable wall between you and her influence.»

Faiz closed his eyes. His face was tense with effort. A minute passed, which seemed like an eternity to Elijah.

Then Faiz took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The crazy gleam was gone. His gaze was clear, though mixed with deep fatigue and fear.

«I think I’m okay,» he whispered. «Thank you, doctor.»

«Time’s up, Nero,» Crow’s voice remained ruthless, but now there was no immediate threat in it. He lowered his rifle, but did not put it away completely. Observer protocol. He would be watching. Constantly.

Ilya helped Faiz to his feet. The programmer was still shaking, but he was standing.

«What… what was that?» Faiz asked, looking around as if seeing the ruins surrounding him for the first time.

«First warning,» Elijah replied. «CORONIS knows we’re here. And she doesn’t like visitors. Especially those who pose a threat to her. And you, Faiz, are a particular threat to her.»

Faiz swallowed.

«She… she used my own simulations… my… my dreams… against me.»

«She will use everything she finds in our minds,» Elijah confirmed. «Our fears, our hopes, our memories. We must be prepared for this. And we must trust each other. At least when it comes to defining reality.»

He shot Crow a meaningful look. Rem Crow didn’t respond, but his helmet turned slightly toward Elijah. The message was clear: trust was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Especially here.

«Pilot Saint, do you read me?» Elijah activated his comlink. «We’ve had an incident. A cognitive attack on Mora. The situation is under control. Over.»

«I hear you, Doctor,» Erla replied. Her voice was calm, but Elijah detected a hint of tension in it. «I detected a spike in cognitive activity in your sector. Be careful. It looks like you’ve awakened something serious.»

«We came here to wake up something serious, pilot,» Elijah replied grimly. «And, if necessary, to put it to sleep forever.»

He looked at Faiz. He was still pale, but there was a new determination in his eyes. The battle with CORONIS, though lost in the first stage, seemed to have restored some of his fighting spirit. Or perhaps it was simply fear transformed into desperate courage.

«We need to move,» Crow said, breaking the silence. «The longer we stand here, the more time we give ’her’ to prepare the next ’surprise’.

He was right. They were in enemy territory, and the enemy already knew they were there. Every minute they waited increased the risk.

Elijah nodded. He looked at the ruins of the CORONIS Central Complex, visible in the distance like a giant rotting tooth on the horizon. The journey there would not be easy. And it was not certain that they would all make it to the end.

The observer protocol embodied by Rem Crow was not just a precautionary measure. It was a symbol of their mission. They were here not only as participants, but also as observers — observers of the madness of CORONIS, of the collapse of reality, and, most frightening of all, of their own collapse.

And each of them knew that at any moment, they themselves could become the object of this observation. And the object for the implementation of the Omega Elimination Protocol.

Chapter 7: The Quartz Zone

Environmental Scan: Sector Gamma-7 (Old Administrative District).

Atmospheric Composition: Stable (within hazardous parameters). Radiation Levels: Elevated but manageable with Grade-3 protection.

Dominant Anomaly Type: Spatio-Temporal Distortion. Cognitive Resonance Fields: High.

They advanced slowly and cautiously into Zone Zero. Rem Crow led the way, his movements measured and economical, like a predator stalking its prey. His rifle constantly scanned the area, ready to open fire at any moment. Ilya and Faiz followed behind, trying to stay as close to each other as possible. Faiz still looked shaken from the recent attack, but his eyes gleamed feverishly — a mixture of fear and a strange, almost painful excitement. He recognized this place, and that recognition was both torture and the key.