CHAPTER 2 – THE INVISIBLE CLOCK

Dawn barely broke over Moscow, filtering through a thick layer of gray clouds.
The first rays of sunlight—pale amber in tone—slid down the facades of tall buildings, pulling timid glints from their glass and steel surfaces.

In the distance, the golden domes of Orthodox churches gleamed with a muted glow, contrasting against the modern silhouette of skyscrapers.
Moscow was waking up like always: grand, indifferent.
As if nothing had changed.
As if the world still had time.

"Another day dawned in Moscow. As if nothing was wrong.
As if the world still had time..."

The roar of traffic grew as the main avenues filled with life.
A swarm of cars raced along the asphalt, weaving together like an endless river of metal.

Vruuum... Vruuum...
BEEEP! BEEEP!

Impatient horns, revving engines, and morning radio chatter composed the city’s daily symphony.

Above the rooftops, a massive digital screen dominated the skyline. On it, the polished logo of Theralux shone with arrogant brilliance. A new ad campaign bloomed in bold colors and daring promises:

"Theralux — Beyond medicine, we build the future."

In a central pedestrian street, life moved with almost perfect choreography.
People hurried by with coffee in hand, dodging one another without making eye contact, while others wandered, eyes glued to their phones, crossing intersections without looking up.

On one corner, a couple kissed like the rest of the world didn’t exist—untouched by the noise, untouched by time.
A few meters away, under the shade of a tree still wet with morning dew, two elderly men faced off in a chess match.
Neither spoke.
But both smiled with silent camaraderie.

Ding-ling.

The sound of the bell over the door marked the entrance to another universe.

Outside, the gray city stayed alert.
Inside...

The smell of fresh bread.
Fruit tea.
Warmth.

Light wood walls, hanging plants, and the soft amber glow of the lighting painted a refuge inside the chaos—a quiet pause in the routine.

Behind the counter, a young waitress—dark uniform, pale apron, hair neatly pinned—moved smoothly between steaming mugs and freshly baked pastries.
She served a family with a genuine smile, the kind that only comes effortlessly.

The children laughed with their mouths full.

Clink clink.

Spoons against plates. Bursts of laughter.

The entire scene seemed immune to bad news.

On the back wall, a television played a low-volume newscast.
The anchor spoke with a restrained expression:

“Shortages reported in rural areas. Government assures the situation is under control.”

No one in the café seemed to be listening.
Maybe they’d all grown used to tuning it out.

A light mist still clung to the treetops, as if reluctant to surrender the day to the sun.
The leaves, still damp, shimmered gently as the morning breeze passed through.

Plof plof plof.

In the middle of a clearing, a barefoot child ran across the grass, laughing without restraint.
His feet drummed against the lawn like a rhythm of pure joy.

Behind him, a mutt chased him with ears flapping and tongue out—pure, unfiltered happiness.

A few meters away, by the artificial lake, a young couple took a selfie.
She held up the phone; he pulled a silly face.
The reflection in the water mirrored them, only slightly distorted by the sway of invisible fish.

The whole scene felt frozen in time.
A perfect moment—deceptively peaceful.

A world that still seemed whole… but only on the surface.

Clak clak clak.

Heavy boots echoed on the damp pavement—the start of another workday.

An open trench split the street, and around it stood a group of workers in reflective vests and worn-out helmets.
Mud-stained boots. Grease-blackened hands. Sweat already forming on their brows.
Everything spoke of hard labor… and a routine with no glory.

Voices mixed with laughter and the buzzing of power tools.

One of them, weathered face and steaming cup of coffee in hand, looked up at the overcast sky.

—Looks like rain today... but honestly, I wish every morning started like this, —he said.

The group chuckled, bound by the kind of camaraderie that only comes from living at the edge of exhaustion—and still being grateful for the little things.

And while the city smiled...
no one noticed that the world’s clock kept counting down.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The shrill electronic chirp of the alarm broke through the thick silence of the room.

06:30 AM.
The red digits blinked on a dusty metal nightstand.

Beside it: a half-empty glass… and a framed photo.
Vik and Anya, smiling.
Two siblings frozen in a memory.
Untouched. Timeless.

A male hand emerged from under a wrinkled blanket and slammed the alarm with a dry smack.

Plaf.

It wasn’t the sound of frustration.
Just habit.
A reflex more than a feeling.

Vik sat at the edge of the bed.
Silver hair tousled over his forehead.
A wrinkled blue tank top.
Comfortable pants.
A pendant with a ring brushed lightly against his chest.

His eyes—amber, intense—still clung to sleep, but there was no fragility in them.

It was the gaze of someone who’d lived more than he should have at that age.

The room was bare but functional.
A shelf filled with technical manuals.
A work jacket draped over a chair.
A window, half-opened blinds filtering in the gray morning light—not enough to wake anyone, only to remind them that the day had begun.

His name was Vik.
Eighteen.
Mechanic. Technician. Orphan since childhood.

He learned to read blueprints before he learned to trust.

But he still believed.

Maybe that’s why...
he hadn’t given up.

Vik stepped into the kitchen, dragging his feet slightly.
Barefoot.
His silver hair fell messily over his forehead.
The ring hanging from his neck swayed gently with every step.
His sleeveless shirt revealed muscles shaped by work—not vanity.

Dark pants.
Under-eye shadows.
Silence.

Chfff.

He lit the stove.
Yawned.
Stretched.

The kettle began to heat, releasing quiet sighs of steam into the air.

The kitchen was modest but functional: light wood cabinets, a steel countertop, and a small window letting in the pale light of an indifferent morning.

Every gesture was routine.
Every movement, muscle memory.

Vik didn’t need clocks.
His body already knew when another day had to begin.

Above the fridge, a yellow sticky note clung stubbornly to a magnet shaped like a bolt.
Next to it, papers and receipts formed a chaotic mural of daily life.

The note, handwritten in firm script, had its corners worn from being moved so often.

A promise.
A repeated absence.

Vik took it between his fingers gently.
He scratched his head in frustration.
His amber eyes scanned the note with resigned familiarity.

Clack.

He set the kettle down on the counter.
The teapot whistled faintly in the background.

—Again... She’s turning into just another piece of furniture in that lab, —he muttered, barely audible.

Anya, his older sister.
Always at Theralux.
Always beyond the schedule.

He didn’t feel abandoned...
Just worried.
Because someone who meant everything to him… was forgetting how to live.

Vik sank into the couch.
Old, but still firm.

In front of him, a tray held a simple breakfast: steaming coffee, toast, fruit.

He turned on the television.
The cold glow of the screen briefly lit up his face.

A commercial greeted him instantly—cheerful, colorful, invasive:

“Theralux—Beyond medicine: we build tomorrow.”

Clac.

Vik tightened his grip on the remote. A half-smile crossed his lips—ironic, tired.

—Yeah, yeah... selling miracles in a bottle too, huh, —he muttered.

He changed the channel.

This time, a live newscast.
Dark background.
Map glowing red.

“New tensions at the border. Moscow warns the United States of retaliation if economic provocations continue.”

The image was grim.
The anchor barely blinked.

Vik didn’t look away.
Brows furrowed.
Jaw tight.

They’ve been playing chicken for years... and it’s always us who pay the price.

He finished breakfast without another word.

On the table:
An empty glass.
Crumbs.
Silence.

Clac.

The empty plate hit the bottom of the sink.

Vik stood over it, washing slowly, methodically.

There was no rush.
No thought.
Just a routine his body knew by heart.

Crumbs.
Soap.
Hot water.
Silence.

When he finished, he set the plate to dry and wiped his hands on a slightly worn towel.

Steam from the kettle still floated in the air, as if refusing to disappear entirely.

The room hadn’t changed since he woke up.
The chair was still in its place.

And on it, his work uniform:
A jacket with the railway service logo, pants folded with precision, gloves placed on top, boots neatly resting beneath the seat.

Beside it, an old gray canvas backpack—its zipper half-broken, seams struggling to hold.

Vik ran his fingers across the fabric.

Shff.

He smoothed it gently and held it for a second. Just one.

Then he hung it back in place—
As if that simple gesture carried more weight than he’d ever admit.

He undressed with the same ease as someone peeling off yesterday.

The wrinkled shirt fell onto the bed.
The pants followed.

Plaf.

Piece by piece, he put on the uniform.
No hesitation. No delay.
As if it were armor.

Then he checked the backpack.

Inside: a tangle of tools, wrenches, screwdrivers, duct tape, loose parts...
A living imprint of his craft.
Of how he survived.

With a sharp tug, he zipped it up as far as it would go and slung it over one shoulder.

The strap creaked softly under the weight.

Chrk.

It wasn’t just a backpack.
It was part of him.
As if it carried more than tools—
As if it carried everything he didn’t say.

From the hallway, dawn’s light pierced through the shadows.

Vik stepped through the door, flipped off the light with a soft click, and closed it behind him—firmly.

Clack.

On the worn-out metal plate, the number still read:

17.

Behind him, his refuge.
Ahead, a world still unaware that it was about to break.

The city was already awake.

Engines roared in the distance.
Sidewalks trembled under footsteps.

But the air...
The air felt different.

It wasn’t tension.
It wasn’t peace.
It was that perfect stillness that only happens right before something breaks.

The streets were alive.

Pedestrians in a rush.
Cars weaving with mathematical precision.
Shops pulling up shutters. Cafés flicking on lights.

Everything moved. Everything worked. Just like always.

Vik walked among them.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, steady.
His silhouette blended into the cityscape, but his eyes… did not.

They were wide open.

A faint smile curved his lips.
Not from joy.
From habit.
From the small victory of still moving forward.

The sun, shy but persistent, bathed the buildings in gold that barely reached the pavement.
And in that soft glow, Vik looked untouchable.
Present, yes.
But also... somewhere else.

The structure of concrete and steel welcomed him like it did every morning.
Solid. Familiar.
A place that never changed, even when everything else did.

On one corner of the entrance, an old sign hung crooked.
Its faded letters still clinging to relevance—witnesses of another time.

Cli-clank.

The automatic doors slid open as they detected his presence.

Inside, the murmur of the underground was different.
More restrained.
Heavier.

It was as if the city, right there in that spot, decided to go quiet.
As if honoring the millions who descended each day, carrying their lives on their backs.

Vik paused for a moment.
Inhaled deeply.

A mix of dampness, electricity, and rusted metal filled his lungs.

And for a second, he felt at home.

In the distance, the low rumble of a train echoed through the tunnels.

Grrrrrrrrrrrr...

Like a beast approaching underground.
Unstoppable.
Precise.

Beep.

The card reader emitted a soft beep. The turnstile clicked open.

Inside the small control booth, Ivan, the station attendant, was already on duty.
Mid-forties. Solid build.
White uniform with the metro logo stitched on the chest.

His face was lined by long shifts and years of work—
But his smile was brand new every morning.

—Vik! Another day to survive! —he called out, cheerful.

Vik answered with his signature half-smile and that calm energy he always seemed to keep to himself.

—Looks like a quiet one. One of those days you barely notice when it starts... or when it ends.

Ivan nodded in agreement, leaning on the counter like that brief exchange was the highlight of his day.

—Let’s hope so! Otherwise, you’ll have to cover another shift for me... Can you imagine? —he joked, raising his eyebrows.

Vik raised a hand without stopping.

—Not a chance, Ivan. See you later.

And kept walking.
Without looking back.
As if that farewell were part of a script they’d rehearsed a thousand times.

The echo of the train grew louder.

Clak-clak-clak… Fsssshhh...

The metal beast came to a surgical stop.

The doors opened with a soft hydraulic whisper.

The crowd moved like a living current.
Footsteps.
Murmurs.
Phones.
Coughs.
An underground symphony with no conductor.

Vik walked along the platform.

Steady steps.
His backpack swayed ever so slightly, as if it too knew how to move with the flow.

He stepped into the train car.

And as he walked down the narrow aisle between the seats, it felt like an imaginary camera was following him—
Like the whole train recognized him.
Like he’d done this a thousand times.

Vik sat by the window.
Set the backpack between his feet.
Pulled out his phone.

Clack.

Earbuds in.
A couple of taps.
Music began to play.

A modern track. Energetic.
The kind that scrubs the noise of the world clean.

And then… he closed his eyes.

Around him, the train blurred.

The overhead lights flickered gently with the rhythm of the tunnel.
Theralux ads rolled by outside the window like fleeting shadows.

Lines.
Colors.
Fragments.
Nothing solid.

His breathing slowed.
His body relaxed.
His head rested lightly against the seat.

For a few minutes...
he could pretend nothing was about to explode.

Chhhh.

The train braked. The doors opened.

The crowd surged forward like a wave.

Vik moved with them.
He didn’t rush.
He simply walked—
As if the world had its own script, and he was just following his lines.

Morning sunlight filtered through the automatic doors, tinting everything gold.

The metal stairs gleamed under his footsteps.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Each step sounded like a drumbeat marking the start of something.
Something inevitable.

And there he was.
Alexei.

Standing tall, arms crossed, wide grin, radiating energy.

Wearing the same uniform—
But on him, it looked like battle gear.

—Vik! Hurry up or we’ll be late! —he shouted, voice cutting through the crowd like a bullet.

Vik smiled instantly.
His pace quickened without effort—
As if the world itself gave him more air when he saw him.

When he reached him, he muttered:

—Knew it… Always there to rush me like I don’t have time for everything else.

Alexei burst out laughing and smacked him on the shoulder.

Paf!

The hit nearly tilted him sideways.

—That’s the secret to surviving in this city! Hurry waits for no one!

Despite his imposing size, Alexei radiated trust.
He was the kind of person you could walk into disaster with... and not feel afraid.

Vik looked at him with amused resignation.
He knew Alexei would always be this way—
Competitive.
Playful.
Loyal.
Unbreakable.

Alexei threw an arm around him and lifted him half a foot off the ground, like a big brother showing off.

—Come on. Today, I’m beating you to the station.

—Again with that? My pace is unmatched, and you know it.

—We all say that... until we’re proven wrong.

They locked eyes.
Silent.
In sync.
Ready.

They walked side by side, weaving through people, cars, and time.

Alexei talked nonstop—
Jokes, comments, wild ideas.
His voice filled the street like an unfiltered song.

Vik answered with dry smiles and sharp comebacks.
Calm humor. Elegant sarcasm.

Two puzzle pieces that fit without effort.
Brothers, without shared blood.

—Vik, I swear—if you don’t run faster, I’ll leave you behind!

—With that “athlete’s body”? Sure… in your dreams.

—Touch my biceps and say I’m lying.

—I’d rather touch a rusty bolt, thanks.

Laughter.
Glances.
A moment of peace in the middle of noise.

The city kept spinning.
So did they.

But for now, at least...
it was just another day.