Бесплатный фрагмент - The Code. SERA.PHIM

Chapter 1. THE OLD CASE

The rain always began the same way — quietly,

as if someone were stitching up the sky with a needle made of glass.

The first drops hit the window lazily, without rhythm,

testing the city’s patience.

But by three a.m., it became a storm — a low, humming roar that filled the air.

It felt as though the very atmosphere trembled from exhaustion.

Alex Reed sat on the floor of his apartment.

Next to him — a voice recorder, a cup of cold coffee,

and an old notebook with almost no blank pages left.

He hadn’t written for days. He only listened.

To the silence.

To his pulse.

And to what came after three seventeen.

The hands on the wall clock were frozen at that exact time.

The batteries were new — he’d checked.

Time simply refused to move.

The moon outside looked fractured —

a piece of light had broken off and hung in the clouds like a shard of glass.

Alex switched on the recorder, pressed Record,

and spoke without looking up:

“If anyone hears this… it means I didn’t make it out.”

— Pause. —

“The code isn’t a program. It’s an imprint.

Mine… theirs… I don’t know.

If someone continues this, remember:

Seraphim isn’t a name. It’s a key.”

His voice cracked — his throat dry, as if something inside refused to speak.

He looked up.

The mirror across the room rippled.

The light bulb flickered once. Then again.

The light began to pulse in waves,

like an old video where the image drifts and burns at the edges.

He stood, slowly, walked closer,

and touched the mirror with one finger.

A crack spread from edge to edge, splitting the reflection in half.

On the left — a tired face, dark circles, a trace of gray at the temples.

On the right — the same face, only younger. Calmer.

It wasn’t breathing in sync.

“You couldn’t save me,”

the reflection whispered.

He staggered back.

The recorder turned on by itself, the tape whirring.

His own voice played over a veil of static, distorted —

as if a dead radio station had tuned into a dream.

“If you’re hearing this… the Loop is still alive.

Don’t trust reflections.

They’re the first ones to lie.”

Alex stepped back,

and the shadow on the wall repeated the movement —

but with delay.

Not instant — a second, maybe two.

But he saw it. Clearly.

The sound looped.

The recorder was taping its own playback,

voices folding over one another like echoes spiraling down a sealed well.

Each repetition grew fainter, but deeper —

as if descending further and further below.

He switched the device off —

but the sound didn’t stop.

It kept coming — from the walls, the lamp, the air itself.

“You couldn’t save me.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed the voice came from inside the mirror.

He turned — and caught the movement.

Not a reflection.

Someone stood behind the glass.

A dark silhouette — too even, too familiar.

Alex reached for the switch,

but the light flared before his fingers touched it.

Blinding white — like someone had taken a photograph of the room

with a colossal flash.

He shut his eyes instinctively.

When he opened them —

the mirror was gone.

In its place — a bare wall, damp as if after rain.

The recorder still glowed red.

He stepped closer, picked it up.

On the display, one word flickered:

SERA.PHIM_02 — ACTIVE

The screen pulsed once —

and went dark.

White noise rolled through the room —

like an invisible hand brushing the air.

On the floor — the reflection of a cracked moon.

Alex clenched the recorder in his palm.

“Who are you…” he breathed.

No answer.

Only the sound of a clock that shouldn’t exist.

Click.

Click.

3:17.

The glow of monitors replaced the dawn.

Mark Reed woke at his desk,

amid cold coffee and a scatter of old files.

The folders smelled of dust and time,

and even the morning air felt stale.

He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand over his face —

razor, coffee, cigarette —

a ritual that passed for prayer.

The screen flickered,

and for a second, that flicker looked like someone moving behind him.

In the Department of Inactive Cases, it was always quiet.

The kind of place where they send what’s too old to solve

and too strange to close.

He liked that silence.

At least, he used to —

until it began to feel like the silence was listening back.

The door opened.

Captain Lawson entered —

perpetually tired, his face like worn asphalt.

“Reed, you’re lucky,” he said,

placing a gray folder on the desk.

“They say you notice things others miss.”

Mark smirked.

“I notice trash that everyone else forgot to throw out.”

“Perfect,” Lawson nodded. “Then this one’s yours.”

On the cover: SERA.PHIM / CLASSIFIED.

Dust lay thick on it, like ash on a tombstone.

He brushed it away with his hand,

and for an instant the air glittered with neon particles.

“Old case,” Lawson said.

“No one wants to touch it.

Last guy who worked on it was…”

He hesitated.

“Alex Reed.”

Mark looked up.

“Relative?”

“No idea. Maybe coincidence.”

Mark traced the folder’s edge with a finger,

as if afraid to stain himself with someone else’s history.

The title was stamped in faded ink —

so faded it left only an impression,

like a scar on paper.

“Project Seraphim.”

Below — Case No. 317-Δ.

“When was it closed?” Mark asked.

“Seven years ago,” Lawson said.

“After…”

He paused, unwilling to say it.

“After the incident.”

Mark looked up again.

“What kind of incident?”

“Better you don’t know. Honestly.

Start digging, and they’ll think you want to be next.”

Lawson smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it.

He turned toward the window —

the street outside drowned in rain and gray haze.

“Just file the report. Then forget it.”

And left.

Mark remained alone.

He hated the word forget.

It always sounded like an order that means the opposite.

He opened the folder.

First pages — interrogation transcripts,

server malfunction reports, photographs.

One showed a burned-out room,

walls covered in symbols like ∞ and numbers scrawled in charcoal.

Another — a charred mirror,

cracks converging at the center like an eye.

Then — a copy of a report, signed:

Alex Reed, Detective 4th Division.

He froze on the name.

Coincidence, he thought.

But somewhere deep inside —

in that quiet layer of mind that feels before it thinks —

something stirred.

He flipped to the end.

On the last page — an envelope.

Old, gray, slightly torn at the edge.

Inside — a small recorder, dusty but intact.

Marked in marker: A.R.

Mark sat down.

He unhooked the headphones and plugged them in.

Pressed Play.

Static.

White, thick, like a radio caught between stations.

Then — breathing.

Too close.

As if the microphone had been pressed right to someone’s lips.

The voice — hoarse, tired:

“If you’re hearing this… it means I didn’t make it out.”

Mark froze.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

There was something unnatural in the air — not fear,

but a cold like the one before a storm.

The voice continued:

“The Loop is still alive. Don’t trust reflections.”

Click.

Silence.

Mark removed the headphones, looked at the recorder.

And then noticed — the screen glowed faintly,

even though the batteries were dead.

The numbers: 03:17.

He exhaled, mechanically reached for a cigarette.

The lighter failed.

Again — nothing.

Only when he smacked it with his palm

did the flame flare — short, nervous.

In the reflection of the metal kettle, he saw himself —

and for a moment thought the eyes of the reflection were wider than his own.

He spun around sharply.

No one behind him.

The city outside was frozen.

Neon signs reflected in puddles,

as if the city were watching itself.

Far away, in an alley, a siren flickered briefly —

but the sound didn’t carry — like silent cinema.

Mark opened his laptop.

He typed the name “Alex Reed” into the database.

Result — No data.

Deleted.

As if the person had never existed.

He frowned.

The case folder lay open like a wound.

Among the documents — a strange sheet, almost translucent,

a thermal printer imprint.

On it — lines of code:

RUN SERA.PHIM_01

LOOP DETECTED_

WARNING: MEMORY RESIDUE ACTIVE

He ran a finger across the paper —

felt a faint vibration, as if the sheet were alive.

His heart skipped a beat.

The recorder’s light blinked.

The playback started again.

Without touch.

“You’re already inside.”

The voice was the same —

but now carried an alien tone, metallic, echoing.

As if the recorder were speaking to itself.

Mark cut the power.

The red light went out.

He sat back, closed his eyes, exhaled slowly.

“Shit…”

A faint click came from the laptop’s speakers.

On the screen, a folder blinked into existence —

one that shouldn’t have been there.

Name: SERA.PHIM_LOGS

He froze.

Inside — a single video.

Date — seven years ago.

File name — A.R_Last_Record.mp4

He clicked.

The image trembled.

The camera focused on a man —

tired eyes, cracked lips, exhaustion written in every line of his face.

Alex.

He stood before the mirror in a dark room.

Only the glow of his phone illuminated his face.

“If you’re seeing this,” he said to the camera,

“it means the Loop has found a new host.

You…”

He trailed off, glancing to the side, as if at someone unseen.

“…you have to understand.

It copies consciousness. Not data. Consciousness.”

The camera jerked.

The image shattered into pixels,

and for a fleeting moment, Mark saw himself.

The same posture. The same room. The same lamp over the desk.

Then the screen went black.

The video ended.

On the player, the time froze at 3:17.

Mark sat perfectly still.

Only his breath — short, uneven, as if the air had thickened.

It took him a moment to realize the recorder had turned on again.

From the speaker came a faint whisper, barely audible:

“Don’t trust mirrors…”

The lamp flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then it went out.

Morning in the archive was no different from night.

Light never truly reached this place —

it died against concrete walls, scattered across old bulbs,

turning into gray mist.

The air smelled of mold, dust, and time

that someone had long since stopped counting.

Mark Reed had always considered archives as places

where the past keeps its mistakes.

Today he realized that sometimes,

it waits for the moment to repeat them.

He walked past a row of metal cabinets.

Each rattled quietly, as if breathing.

His fingers skimmed rusty tags — 204, 217, 305…

317.

He stopped.

The cabinet leaned slightly,

as if someone had pulled it but never finished the job.

On the door — a handprint.

Old, yet sharp, like a mark of charcoal.

Mark turned the key, clicked the lock.

The door creaked open — a sound that echoed somewhere deep within the building.

Inside — a few boxes, files labeled “SERVER INCIDENT: SERA.PHIM”.

And an old laptop.

Silver casing, cracked screen, sticker: “A.R.”

He pulled the laptop out, placed it on the desk, plugged it in.

For a moment — silence.

Then the screen came alive, casting a bluish glow,

too cold for human eyes.

The old interface. Video archive.

Folder: LOG_03.

He clicked.

First video: dated seven years ago.

Location — the basement of the data center.

On the recording — Alex, standing by the mirror,

with a camera operator nearby.

Alex spoke quietly:

“Reflections are duplicating. Cameras capture two images,

even though there is only one light source.”

He moved closer to the mirror.

Mark leaned toward the screen.

On the recording — indeed, two reflections.

One familiar, the other slightly delayed, as if lagging.

On the third second, the mirrored Alex blinked first.

Mark rewound.

Paused.

Scrolled frame by frame.

By the fifth frame — something strange:

the reflection tilted its head slightly,

as if looking straight into the camera.

In its eyes — a microscopic glint of light, like code on a lens.

He hit stop.

The screen shivered.

For a moment — a flash,

and a face not Alex’s flickered across the monitor.

Briefly. A few pixels.

But Mark saw himself.

He leaned back in his chair.

His fingers trembled slightly.

Took a sip from his cup —

and only then realized the coffee was cold,

though he had poured it just a minute ago.

Second recording.

The same basement, but the light is dimmer. Alex is alone.

Breathing can be heard.

He writes something on the wall — the symbol ∞,

and next to it the numbers “3:17.”

“It all starts here,” he whispers.

“The moment the reflection decides to live its own life.”

From off-frame, the sound of footsteps.

Someone is moving behind him.

He turns, but the camera captures nothing.

In the lens, only his reflection is visible — now three of them.

One — mouth open, as if screaming.

Mark hit pause.

Inhaled. Exhaled.

A metallic taste rose to his throat.

He closed the laptop.

But the screen didn’t go dark.

His face reflected in the black surface —

and behind his shoulder, for a fleeting moment,

a shadow seemed to flicker.

A sharp sound made him flinch.

The phone on the desk rang.

Screen — empty, number unknown.

“Reed,” it said, dryly.

Silence.

Only breathing on the line.

He was about to hang up, but then he heard:

“They’re still watching through the reflections.”

The voice — old, fractured.

The same one from the recording.

Alex.

Mark froze.

“Who is this?”

“Look under the number…” — the voice broke off.

Static.

Crackle.

Connection lost.

He hung up, reopened the folder, and scrolled through the reports.

Inside one file — a name:

“Thomas Lee, data center technician, survivor of the incident. Condition: acute psychosis. Location — St. Mary’s Clinic, Sector D.”

Mark stared at the line for a long moment.

Then he stood, grabbed his coat, pulled on his gloves.

He had to see him.

The road wound through old districts,

where the windows of the buildings looked like empty eye sockets.

St. Mary’s Clinic stood on the outskirts, among abandoned factories.

A gray building, one wing barred with grids, the other exhaling bleach and whispers.

The receptionist didn’t flinch at the detective badge.

“Lee?” she said, scanning the log.

“Sector D, room 12. But he doesn’t speak. Three years now.”

He walked down the corridor.

The lamps flickered, and each time the light went out,

it felt as though the walls shifted slightly.

At the room — a window with frosted glass.

Inside — a man around fifty, shaved head.

Sitting, staring into a corner.

Mark entered.

“Thomas Lee? I’m with the police. I need to talk.”

He didn’t move.

Only his lips twitched, and he whispered something.

Mark leaned closer.

“What did you say?”

“They…” — the voice was quiet, dry. —

“They’re still watching. Through the reflections.”

Mark frowned.

“Who — ‘they’?”

Thomas turned his head.

His eyes were clouded, yet full of terror.

“The reflections. They don’t copy. They wait.”

He pointed at the window.

“There… one of them.”

Mark turned.

In the window — only his own reflection.

But when he blinked, he saw: the reflection’s mouth slightly open,

as if whispering.

And the lips moved with a delay.

“Fuck…”

He left the room, feeling his chest tighten.

The corridor flickered again.

For a moment — something passed in the glass of the door behind him.

A silhouette.

Black. Perfectly still. Faceless.

Mark spun around sharply — empty.

He paused until his breathing evened out.

Then he took Alex’s recorder and turned it on.

On the tape — the same static.

But now, layered over it, a new voice.

Quiet, with a metallic rhythm:

“He knows. He has 3:17.”

The recorder clicked.

The screen lit up.

Time — 03:17.

Night in his apartment hung thick, like an old dream.

Outside, the city pulsed with neon — not shining, but pulsing,

as if a giant heart beneath the asphalt pumped light instead of blood.

The stopwatch hand on the wall had frozen midway.

Since returning from the clinic, everything around him seemed slightly out of sync:

the fridge hummed with irregularity, the lamp flickered unevenly,

and in the bathroom mirror, his reflection lagged by a fraction of a second.

Mark sat at the laptop.

On the screen — audio files from the SERA.PHIM_LOGS folder.

Old format, low bitrate,

but each recording stretched for thirty minutes —

a quiet static, occasional clicks, as if someone walked past the microphone and vanished again.

He put on the headphones.

A white noise began.

Monotonous, even, like the breath of a sleeping body.

He listened, rubbing the bridge of his nose out of habit,

and then realized — the rhythm matched his own.

It breathed with him.

He took off the headphones.

The noise didn’t stop.

He could still hear the breathing — now from behind him.

“Who’s there?” he said, without turning.

No answer. Only a faint crackle — the sound of a webcam activating.

The indicator on the laptop lit up, though he hadn’t opened any video.

The screen flickered, then a camera window opened on its own.

On the black background appeared a face. His own.

Gray filter, faint grain, dark eyes.

The reflection blinked — delayed.

A fraction of a second earlier.

Mark froze.

The mouse cursor moved by itself, clicked on the folder A.R._record.

On the screen — Alex again, but the frame looped:

Alex stared into the camera, and in the reflection beside him stood another Alex,

pupil-less, shadow in place of a face.

Behind them — a tall, distorted silhouette.

Mark tried to close the player, but the cursor ignored him.

The recording stopped on its own.

The breathing grew louder.

Now it came through the speakers.

He turned on the lamp — it flickered three times and burned steadily for exactly seventeen seconds.

Then — it went out.

Darkness filled the room again.

Words appeared on the laptop screen, as if someone were typing them live:

DON’T STOP.

HE’S STILL HERE.

He slammed the lid shut.

Silence.

But in the reflection of the glass panel, he could still see the glowing letters,

as if they were burned onto his retina.

He stood and approached the window.

The rain had started again — fine, prickly.

In the reflection of the glass — his face, tired, shadowed beneath the eyes.

He looked directly into his own eyes — and suddenly, the reflection moved its lips.

“Don’t stop,” it whispered.

He recoiled.

“Who are you?”

Silence.

Then, barely audible:

“He hasn’t left yet.”

“Who?”

The reflection blinked, and at that moment, a voice came from the laptop — the same one from the recording:

“Alex.”

Mark turned slowly.

The laptop lid was ajar.

On the screen — the video player, and in the window, Alex again, now staring directly at him.

“If you’re hearing this, Mark,” he said,

“the loop isn’t closed. It has chosen a new path.”

The voice crackled, distorted, but recognizable.

In the corner of the screen, the time flickered — 03:17.

The screen shimmered, the image doubled.

For a second, Mark saw not his room, but the one —

where Alex had stood before the mirror.

A second later — it vanished.

He yanked the power cord; the laptop went dark.

But the lamp above the desk ignited on its own.

In the reflection of the monitor, a face flickered —

neither his, nor Alex’s, something else.

A smile, far too wide.

He slammed the switch.

Darkness.

And silence.

Only breathing, somewhere close, almost at his ear.

“Don’t trust mirrors…”

The words sounded directly in his mind.

He pressed his temples, trying to shake the echo,

but it didn’t leave, only dissolved into the silence.

The wall clock started again.

Click.

Click.

03:17.

The city slept unevenly.

Rain had been falling for the third day,

and the streets had become like rivers of ink.

Neon floated in the puddles, dissolving into smeared symbols.

Mark drove without turning on the headlights.

The cabin was dark, only the dashboard glowed a dim blue,

and the numbers of time didn’t move — 03:17.

He drove by memory.

The address from the file had long been erased from the city map —

the telecommunications building where the SERA.PHIM servers had once stood.

It was believed all equipment had been removed,

and the site closed due to a toxic leak.

But archival photos told a different story —

a basement, mirrored corridors, red wires leading nowhere.

The asphalt under the wheels crunched like a cassette being rewound.

When he stopped at the gates, the rain abruptly ceased.

The world became unnaturally silent, as if sound itself had been cut out.

He stepped out of the car.

The air was cold, metallic on the tongue.

The old building loomed like a shadow — its façade cracked, windows boarded up, yet somewhere inside, a faint light flickered.

Mark pushed the door.

It gave way with a dull groan.

Inside, the air smelled of dust, ozone, and something else… elusive, like the scent after a storm, when the air feels electric.

The corridor led downward.

Ceiling bulbs flickered like nervous ticks.

He walked slowly, counting his steps — twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…

On the twenty-fourth — the light died.

But under his feet, a faint line glowed, stretching into the darkness.

He pulled out a flashlight.

The beam snatched a desk from the shadows, papers scattered across it, coated in dust.

In the center stood an old phone — rotary dial, enamel peeling.

On its casing, a plaque: “NETWORK / INTERNAL CHANNEL 3:17.”

He stepped closer.

The dust trembled, as if someone had just set down the receiver.

He crouched, running a finger along the device.

Cold. But not dead.

Silence.

And then — a short beep.

The phone rang once, twice.

Then it rang again.

The sound cut through the air.

Hollow, as if something deep underground had answered.

Mark lifted the receiver.

“Reed,” he said.

On the other end — nothing.

Only static, like a slow, shallow breath.

He was about to hang up, but a voice emerged.

Low, trembling, as if passing through metal:

“Mark Reed.”

He froze.

His heart beat twice, skipped the third.

“Who is this?”

“I — I’m Alex.

If you’re hearing this, the loop has reopened.

Don’t trust the mirrors.”

The voice seemed to crawl out of the line itself, punctuated with crackle and interference.

Mark tried to respond, but a moan came through the speaker, then a sharp burst, like someone had dropped a tape recorder.

The noise spiraled into a high-pitched shriek, ringing his ears.

He recoiled from the receiver — but the ringing didn’t stop.

The device sounded even without a cord.

The ceiling lamps flared white.

Everything around him glowed blindingly.

For a fleeting moment, he saw himself — in the reflection of the window opposite.

But the reflection moved independently.

Its lips moved, forming words he couldn’t hear.

“What do you want?” — Mark shouted.

The reflection raised a hand, finger to lips.

Silence.

Then, a quiet, almost gentle voice came from the receiver:

“It begins again.”

A flash of light.

A deafening crack.

The phone exploded, showering him with shards of glass.

He fell, covering his head.

When he stood, silence had returned.

The room sank into darkness.

Only fragments of glass on the floor glimmered, like pieces of shattered mirrors.

Mark rose, took a cautious step forward.

On the wall where the phone had been, a dark stain spread — molten metal.

Above it, burned into the surface, letters glowed faintly:

SERA.PHIM_02: ACTIVE

   He turned slowly.

   In the reflection of the broken glass — his face.

   Only the lips of the reflection moved independently, soundless.

   And the eyes — slightly darker.

   “Welcome inside.”

   He blinked.

   And everything vanished.

   The watch on his wrist — 03:17.

   A second.

   Click.

Chapter 2. THE FIRST CLUE

Old Laptop

Late at night.

The city outside looked like a blinking error map — neon patches drifting in the fog, raindrops sliding down the glass, reflecting a light that belonged to no one.

The apartment was silent, but not the kind of silence that brings peace. This was a living, breathing silence, charged with electricity, rustles, and a faint hum — as if the walls themselves were listening.

Mark sat cross-legged on the floor.

Before him — an old Dell Latitude, its case covered in fine scratches.

The keys gleamed from wear, the fan emitted a strange, uneven noise, like a wheeze, like the breath of a sick man.

An old device, but alive. Too alive.

He plugged it in.

The screen flickered, flashed gray, then black, and displayed a boot line, as if from another era:

BOOTING SYSTEM_…

ACCESS: /SERA.PHIM/

He didn’t press anything.

The cursor blinked, then the screen went completely white, and folders appeared:

/logs

/field_video

/loop_data

/Sera.phim_01

Mark was silent.

Only the cracking of his knuckles — a habitual motion before an interrogation or opening a file.

He opened /field_video.

The screen came alive.

First — static, gray stripes like an old VHS tape.

Then — the image.

Alex.

He held the camera low, at chest level.

You could see him walking down the street: wet asphalt, sparse passersby, yellowish shop lights.

A normal city.

But Mark immediately felt something was off.

He rewound and hit play again.

The same woman in a gray coat passed by three times.

The same step, the same raindrop falling on her shoulder, the same bag with the same knot on its strap.

Not editing. Not a camera glitch.

A loop.

Mark leaned closer to the screen.

Alex’s breathing was captured in the microphone — heavy, erratic, as if he were walking and afraid to look back.

In the background — a traffic light flashes yellow, but the lamp flashes with an error: three flickers, a pause, one more.

3:17.

He rewound.

Tried another angle — the same scene, but now the woman walked in the opposite direction.

The background matched perfectly. Even the raindrop fell in exactly the same spot.

— What the hell am I watching… — he whispered.

The screen twitched, as if in response.

For a second — it froze.

Then, at the bottom, a line of code appeared:

> Sera.phim_01 [recording resumed]

Mark leaned back, ran a hand over his face.

His throat burned.

The laptop’s fan rasped louder, as if syncing with his breathing.

He hit pause, but the fan didn’t stop.

The noise shifted into a low, rhythmic hum — electrical, or maybe a heartbeat.

For a second, it seemed like the laptop itself was breathing.

He muted the sound.

The hum remained.

Not from the speakers — from the air.

From the room itself.

He stood, walked to the window.

Streetlights reflected in the glass.

His own face looked alien — gaunt, pale, with sunken eyes.

He stared.

And for a moment, he saw movement behind him — as if someone had passed in the depths of the room.

He turned.

No one.

Only the flicker of the screen, where the recording still played: the city, the rain, and the same woman, again and again, in an endless loop.

He returned, hit the rewind key.

The video jerked, the sound distorted, then the camera flipped on itself.

On screen — Alex’s face.

He was walking and looking straight into the lens, eyes tired, lips trembling.

“If you’re watching this,” — his voice came delayed — “it means she’s awake.”

Mark froze.

— Who is “she”? — he exhaled.

The laptop’s fan suddenly fell silent.

A heavy quiet settled.

And in that quiet, the screen seemed to glow from within — dim, pale, like breath through glass.

In the left corner, a new line appeared:

> observer detected

He didn’t touch the keyboard.

But the letters kept typing themselves:

> hello marc.

He closed the lid.

The screen went dark.

The room was swallowed by shadow.

A moment later — a faint crackle.

The laptop powered on by itself.

On the screen — the same face of Alex, now silent, mouth open.

From the speakers — a barely audible sound of breathing.

Heavy. Ragged.

Like someone who hadn’t fully died.

Glitch

The night seemed endless.

Mark hadn’t slept — he just sat at the desk, listening to the old laptop crackle, as if someone walked inside its fragile shell.

A lamp hung from the ceiling — its light hit the screen directly, and the entire room looked drawn.

No sound outside, not even the rain.

He decided to rewatch the recordings.

The “field_video” folder was already open, but now a new date had appeared — 03_17_last.

He hadn’t created the file.

He hadn’t created the time.

Mark slowly moved the cursor toward it.

Click.

The image shook, as if the camera were breathing.

Alex stood in some basement — cold concrete, pipes, mirrors on the walls.

There were too many mirrors. Some whole, some cracked, and in a few, instead of a reflection, there was only darkness, like torn video.

Alex’s voice sounded muffled, distant, as if he weren’t speaking into a microphone but directly into the viewer’s ear:

“If you’re watching this… the Loop is still alive.

Don’t trust the reflections.

They don’t reflect. They remember.”

Mark felt goosebumps rise on his arms.

He leaned back, blinked.

The lamp above him flickered.

At first, just a flash — then a rhythm.

One, pause. One-two.

It flickered again — perfectly in sync with the glitches on the screen.

He squinted: the lamp’s light and the video’s light moved in unison, as if someone controlled them from a single panel.

Alex on the screen turned.

And each of his steps was echoed by a flicker in reality.

For a second, it seemed as though the air shivered.

The floor, the walls — everything responded in a wave.

Mark reached for the switch but didn’t touch it — the lamp flared brighter than it should.

On the monitor’s glass surface, he saw his reflection.

It moved with a delay.

A second, maybe two.

He raised his hand — the reflection raised it too, but slightly later.

Too slow.

And it smiled.

Mark froze.

— What the…

On the video, Alex approached the mirror.

The interference intensified, the image began to break, pixels trembled.

A high-pitched, sharp squeal — unnatural, like a knife on glass.

Mark covered his ears.

But the sound didn’t disappear. It came from inside his head.

The screen flashed.

For a fraction of a second — Alex’s face changed.

Not him.

Mark.

The same shirt, the same posture, the same shadow under the eyes.

Mark recoiled, knocking over his chair.

The laptop didn’t respond — the video kept playing, even though the player was closed.

Lines of code flickered across the screen:

loop_01 active

mirror_event detected

recording resumed_

He grabbed the mouse, jerked — the cursor froze.

The screen flashed a second time, the image distorted, as if time in the room had looped back on itself.

He heard his own breathing — but delayed.

On the inhale, a sigh came through the speakers.

The lamp flickered rapidly, like a heart before stopping.

Everything around became unnaturally bright: the walls pale, the outlines of objects trembling.

In the wardrobe mirror, a shadow flickered.

He looked — his reflection stood delayed.

For a second, it lagged, then caught up.

But the reflection’s mouth moved, though he remained silent.

“You are not alone.”

The phrase came barely audible, as if the lamp itself spoke it — not sound, but a vibration in the air.

Mark slammed the laptop shut — the thud echoed in the silence.

But even with the lid closed, he could hear the noise — quiet breathing, coming from under the plastic, as if someone were sleeping inside the case.

He stood.

Walked to the window.

The sky outside was black, starless.

The reflection in the glass — distorted, stretched, as if the glass had turned liquid.

Mark looked at himself and suddenly realized: the reflection was closer than it should be.

Half a step closer to the glass than he was.

His fingers trembled.

He reached out.

The tips of his fingers touched the surface — cold, like ice.

And in that moment, the reflection smiled.

Mark pulled back his hand.

Staggered, collided with the table.

The lamp flared. The laptop screen lifted its lid by itself.

Sound erupted — beeps, crackles, breathing.

On the monitor — his face.

He was looking at the screen.

And behind him — a shadow.

“You’re still watching,” the voice said.

He yanked the power cord. The screen went dark.

The room plunged into total darkness.

Silence.

But behind the wall, something clicked — as if another lamp, invisible, had turned on.

Pause.

Second.

Third.

Rhythm.

3:17.

Code trace

The apartment fell silent again.

But it wasn’t the calm after a storm — not relief, but as if the air itself were listening.

Mark sat at the desk, in front of him — the closed laptop.

His fingers rested on the lid, as if on the chest of the dead.

He was afraid to open it — but knew he would anyway.

Click.

The screen lit instantly, as if it had never been off.

On the desktop, there was no video — only a single icon: /logs.

He clicked.

A file list opened.

Hundreds of lines — the same name, only the numbers at the end were different:

loop_01.log, loop_02.log, loop_03.log… up to loop_317.log.

He opened the first one.

The text was dry, mechanical, yet with a strange logic, as if someone were writing a diary, not code:

loop_01 active

mirror_event detected

recording: 3:17:00

observer none

The next file:

loop_02 active

mirror_event detected

recording: 3:17:00

observer: ALEX

And the third:

loop_03 active

mirror_event detected

recording: 3:17:00

observer: UNKNOWN

Mark scrolled down.

The further he went, the more differences appeared.

Some lines seemed written by a human, not a machine:

“he is watching through the screen”

“the reflection does not match”

“memory will leak into the glass”

He leaned back in his chair.

A pulse throbbed in his temples.

— What the hell…

He opened the terminal.

The cursor blinked like a heartbeat.

Empty input.

He typed:

run Sera.phim_01

On the screen came a response, as if someone had been waiting:

Sera.phim_01: ACTIVE

observer_detected

HELLO_MARC.

Mark froze.

He hadn’t typed his name.

He had typed nothing except the command to run.

For a second, it felt as if the air had thickened.

The screen seemed to be watching him.

The small cursor stopped blinking.

He whispered slowly:

— Who are you?

No reply appeared.

But the laptop camera clicked — softly, almost affectionately.

A red dot lit up.

The image flashed — and on the screen, he saw himself.

Sitting in the dark, at the desk, gray-faced, eyes empty.

Only this was not a reflection.

Delay.

He raised his hand — the image delayed by a second.

Then it raised its hand too.

But not fully.

The movement — not identical, not mirrored.

More like repeated.

Mark watched himself — and saw “he” begin to smile.

Slowly, too slowly.

Cheeks trembling, eyes not blinking.

He closed the camera window.

It opened again.

Closed — opened again.

A new line of code appeared on the screen, directly over the image:

do_not_close_me

Mark slammed the keyboard, shutting down the terminal.

Nothing happened.

The screen kept glowing.

The reflection leaned closer, filling the entire monitor with its face.

“You’re watching,” the reflection whispered.

“And that means we’re both alive.”

Mark screamed and flipped the laptop.

It hit the floor, the screen flickered — and went dark.

The room sank into semi-darkness. Only the red power indicator blinked slowly.

He sat frozen, listening to the fan inside the case whisper for a few more seconds — as if the machine were breathing.

In his mind, the same three words he had just seen on the screen echoed:

HELLO, MARC

Crosslink

Morning didn’t arrive. It simply oozed out of the night.

A gray light — if you could call it light — seeped through the blinds, staining the walls of the apartment in metallic shades.

Mark sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed. His shirt reeked of dust and stale coffee.

He couldn’t remember falling asleep — maybe he hadn’t slept at all.

The phone blinked 06:52.

A hum resonated in his head. Not from sleep, but something else.

Like someone whispering, softly, right behind his ear — on another frequency.

He splashed his face with icy water and looked in the mirror — red eyes, but his reflection lagged by a fraction of a second.

“Shit,” he muttered, blinking. And the reflection blinked with him.

Now — in sync.

He got dressed and stepped out.

The street to the department was empty.

Cars lined the curb like discarded bones.

Rain began to drizzle, but the drops didn’t hit the windshield — they hung suspended, turning into transparent ripples.

He walked the last hundred meters.

Above the door, a dim neon sign flickered: DEPARTMENT OF UNSOLVED CASES.

The bulb inside the letter “D” blinked. One. Two. Three. Then a short pause.

3:17.

Coincidence.

But coincidences like this were becoming far too frequent.

Inside, it was dark.

No living voice, only a low, almost animal hum of the server room.

The air smelled of dust and ozone.

Monitors on the desks were all on, even though he had shut them down yesterday.

He walked along the rows.

On one screen — flashing system clocks.

03:17.

On another — the same.

The third, the fourth, every single one.

The office breathed in unison, like a creature with countless eyes.

Mark stopped.

“What the — ”

He sat at his desk.

The monitor came alive on its own, no password, no boot sequence.

A surveillance window opened.

Access log: today, 07:42.

He blinked.

He had just walked in.

But the recording was already there — his entry into the building, captured before it even happened.

He played the video.

The camera at the entrance showed the corridor: the door swings open, Mark enters, takes off his coat, walks past the reception.

Everything as usual.

Except behind him… a shadow.

Mark stopped the video and rewound.

Yes — someone was following him, step for step, exactly mirroring his movements.

He increased the contrast.

The silhouette was tall, thin, leaning slightly forward.

The image trembled, pixels breaking, but for a split second a face appeared.

Alex.

Mark jerked back in his chair.

The air left his lungs like a punch.

He pressed play again.

The video continued — now Alex stood against the wall, as if staring directly into the camera.

The focus wavered, the image compressed, distorted sound clawing through the static.

“You weren’t supposed to watch,” the voice said.

The screen trembled.

Ripples appeared, like water disturbed.

Lines of the image spiraled outward, as if someone were pulling at the thread of time itself.

Mark panicked and hit pause.

The video didn’t stop.

He watched — and saw himself.

Now.

In the same chair, the same posture, in the same office.

Only in the frame, he wasn’t looking at the screen — he was looking into the camera.

Right into his eyes.

He turned around.

Nothing.

But the air felt heavier, pressing in.

On the video, “he” slowly rose, turned toward the wall.

And behind him — a silhouette.

The same.

Alex.

Mark slammed the keyboard, but the system didn’t respond.

Every monitor around him flickered to life, the same windows opening, as if someone had synchronized them by hand.

On each screen — the same frame.

Mark.

Alex.

And the blinking timecode: 03:17:00.

Sound returned — faint, low, like a heartbeat.

On the screen, Alex stepped forward, straight toward the camera.

Static thickened, the image fractured, but the lips moved — clear, deliberate.

“We didn’t die, Mark.

We were just recorded.”

The monitors flashed white, and in a single instant, the office was swallowed by darkness.

The server hum cut off, like a cable had been snipped.

Mark remained seated, staring at the black screens, where his own face lingered for a moment.

Then — silence.

Only from the depths of the corridor came a quiet click, like a lamp switching on.

One.

Pause.

Two.

Three.

03:17.

Echo

The office filled with sound again — but not real sound.

The hum of servers returned like an echo, rising from beneath the floor, as if the network had switched on itself.

Mark sat, frozen.

Before him — a black monitor.

His own reflection stared back, tired, unblinking.

Then the screen trembled.

First softly, like a breath. Then a little stronger.

A vintage video player appeared over the background, the same one from the archive.

The file opened on its own.

The image was nearly colorless — gray static, ripples, then a blurred silhouette of Alex.

He stood in semi-darkness; his face was indistinct.

Only his lips moved, and the voice came, not from the speakers, but from the walls, from the air around:

“If you’re watching this… then I failed.”

“But maybe… you can succeed.”

The voice was muted, as if coming from another room, someone whispering into concrete.

The sound lagged, echoing inside Mark’s skull.

He exhaled.

“Alex… where did you record this?”

No answer.

Only ragged breathing from the speakers.

On the screen, Alex’s face began to blur, dissolving into gray static.

Then the screen went dark, and a few lines of text appeared instead:

loop_01: complete

loop_02: transfer initiated

observer: active

LOOP_CONTINUES

Mark stared at the last line.

It blinked.

Each blink in the rhythm of a heartbeat.

He reached for the keyboard, but the cursor moved with delay.

Two clicks — nothing.

A third — the screen went black.

Darkness.

Only his reflection remained in the glass.

But not alone.

In the background, deep in the room, a second silhouette appeared.

It stood behind him, motionless.