0X01 Unused Port
This kitchen belongs to a freelance sysadmin—not the kind who survives on a blade-thin MacBook, drops snarky posts on X every other hour, and thinks "crash" means a failed romance and "drop" is the latest sneaker release. That type doesn’t panic, because if something’s broken, it’s "we’ll patch it later" or "throw a hotfix on it." Their kitchens are pristine, Scandinavian-minimalist renderings, glowing with curated lighting. Just a MacBook, a glass of matcha, and maybe a stack of unread product management books. You could fit a string quartet in there and still have room to pivot to Series A.
The owner of this kitchen is a different breed entirely. A BOFH who hears "drop" and thinks DROP TABLE, and "crash" triggers production PTSD. This kitchen came with the apartment three years ago, inherited from a retired network necromancer—the last Viking of RIPv2 and SCSI—who once looked at his servers, sighed, and decided to raise bees in Karelia, far from tickets and midnight alerts. A gas stove still stands, but there’s an induction plate on top, because it’s faster. The oven’s now a parts warehouse. The microwave works—sort of. Its display shows corrupted symbols ever since last year, but it heats ramen fine. There’s no coffee machine, but four kettles exist—three under repair, one functional. Under the table hums a rack of hypervisors, stacked with VMs, containers, and one forgotten OpenVZ instance no one dares touch for fear of triggering a network cataclysm.
It all runs on scripts old enough to remember their author’s youthful optimism. Above this chaos, like a sacred banner, flies the legendary ENCOR 1000/1000—flashing a warning: "Access Denied. You are not root."
Light creeps through a hole in the blackout curtain, dragging across the pale grey (once white) bedsheet, the IKEA fleece (still grey), brushing the tip of a dark snout, sliding up the nose and landing on closed eyes. The nose wrinkles, a sneeze explodes, and bright azure eyes snap open—only to squeeze shut again in protest. Dust settles. Fans hum. The light spot continues across the couch. Sleep slips away.
知っていましたか?)嵐の俳句 (夢を見ましたか?)走り続けた
A paw emerges from under the blanket, patting around for warmth, colliding with a cold stool. A grumble, then retreat. Old J-rock creeps louder from speakers rigged into Yamaha units in both hallway and room. The neighbors below are not so lucky—Kinuko Omori versus human sleep cycles. Guess who wins.
今夜はハリケン
How many—
気づいてハリケン
I alr— told y—
すがおママ タッチ！
u i own!
触らせてください
UT!— I— SHI— O— NOW!!!
A rustle. The blanket flings back. A bedhead crowned with tangled midnight-blue fur emerges, eyes squinting into the light. A hand reaches instinctively, finds the remote, lowers the volume. Coziness reasserts itself—Yamaha’s still hum in the background, a lo-fi morning chorus.
He sits. Listens. Not out of reverence—just not ready to move. Final riff. Final chorus. Then a long inhale. Stretch. No-look remote tap.
Then—the ancient ritual: radiator pounding. One, two, three thumps from below.
—"Turn it down already! This isn’t a damn recording studio!"
He snorts. That guy always does this. Tolerates, bangs the radiator, shouts—and goes back to tolerating.
Priority mail drops with a CLANG! Discord plink! Slack ticks. Telegram rings in with a decisive KRK-TING!
He flips onto his back, paw over eyes, mind parsing:
Four new messages. Mail. Telegram. Discord. Slack. Priority email. Telegram’s urgent. Discord’s noise. Slack’s noise. Conclusion: coffee comes first. Could’ve been living in Karelia. Bees. Silence. Tea.
Cold floor. Stretch. Real contact with the world.
—"Hey Siri, make coffee." — Silence.
Right. Manual labor. Find a clean mug. Fill and trigger the smart kettle. It resists. He overpowers it with a screwdriver wedged into the switch.
Coffee? None. Ground? Gone. Instant? Emptied. Backup 3-in-1s? Drank during last week’s breakdown. With a sigh, he pulls the screwdriver, frees the kettle, sighs again, and trudges to the workstation.
12:08. Thunderbird and Telegram flash like dying fish.
Mail: escalation. Blank message. Another escalation. Then: client closed the ticket. With dread, he checks Telegram.
16 October [Horizon-M Secretary]> Olvir, help! 09:02
> Mail lagging 10 min+ 09:73
> Fixed. Sorry. 09:49
> Broke again. Printers flaky 10:53
> Director says downloads are slow 10:56
> Errors sending mail 10:59
> Andrey can’t log in 11:33
> "Can’t locate domain blah" 11:33
> "Network path not found" 11:35
> Working again. Thanks! 11:49
> Director wants full net diagnostics 12:02
> Pay double if needed 12:05
> When can you come? 12:08
He squints at the screen. Replies:
[Olvir]
< I’ll be there by 6pm. 12:10
Stretch. Shoulder roll. Reaches for the phone to order coffee. Pauses.
[Horizon-M Secretary]> Double pay for emergency call. 12:11
> Really urgent. 12:11
He plots the route—D1 to Savyolovskaya, then ten minutes walk. Three cafes en route. Looks at his empty cup.
[Olvir]
< Fine. Two hours. 12:13
< If no traffic. 12:13
He gets up, automatically grabs the toolbag and laptop, heads for the door. Winces. A draft hits him. Stops. The hallway is colder than it should be. He squints at the door, confused for a second. Oh. He almost walked out in just boxers, buoyed by the promise of double pay.
He glances at himself in the dusty mirror—faintly cloudy, streaked with old marks he no longer notices. White fur, tousled and not yet smoothed from sleep, a pale smear in the dim apartment.
Behind him: the hallway in shadow, a tangle of cables leading under the desk, to the servers, to the routers, to the rack... They look alive. Like they were searching for him while he slept. Like they’re reaching for him. Like they want to touch. Of course it’s just the light. A play of shadows and screen glow. Just morning. But he watches a second longer than usual, as if expecting them to twitch.
Then he flicks the switch. Light floods the apartment—harsh, sudden, slicing through shadows and turning cables back into cables. The mirror now reflects sharper, cleaner. He’s already done caring.
He moves into the bathroom on autopilot. Gets dressed later. When he’s fully awake.
He steps off the train at Savyolovskaya and the first thing he feels is that unmistakable autumn chill—not the kind that hits immediately, but the kind that makes you do up an extra button on your coat.
The crowd is unhurried. Not dense like in the city center, but still too lively for his kind of morning.
He walks the usual route. To the place that knows he wants a flat white—no syrups, none of that extra fluff. Inside, it’s quiet. Just the hum of the coffee machine and the soft clink of spoons against mugs.
"The usual?" — the barista asks.
Olvir nods. The barista says something else, but he’s not listening anymore—he’s already scanning the shelf for beans. Maybe try something new this time? Ethiopian? That blueberry note? But he knows how it’ll go: too good to waste on a rushed morning. It’ll sit until he’s desperate.
So he picks the Colombian. No thought. No feeling. Habit.
The coffee is hot. The bag of grounds—heavy (or so it feels). The laptop bag—heavier. The route brings him to the office building like it always does.
He drinks slowly. Savoring the last sips. One paw holds the paper cup. The other—cigarette pack and a pod in his pocket. He rolls the pack between fingers.
So? Regular one? Or the pod? Or skip it? As if someone else inside is waiting for that decision. But there’s really no choice. He signals to himself that the day has officially started. Pulls one out, clicks the lighter, inhales.
For a couple minutes, things are simpler.
Then he tosses the cup and butt in the trash. Heads for the office building.
The Horizon-M management office takes up half the 11th floor. Standard business center corridor: tile, glass, slightly scuffed frosted doors with tenant logos, a lonely ficus against the wall.
He walks through the glass doors, giving the camera a brief glance. His reflection flashes across the polished turnstile metal—tall, white-furred, toolbag over shoulder, coffee-fueled scowl.
The secretary’s voice is bright, but too bright—forced. She always sounds like that when things are wrong in the office.
She gestures vaguely at the office.
"Either the system works or it doesn’t."
"You don’t get it. It acts like it’s… thinking."
"I don’t know! I hit print—nothing happens. Five seconds. Ten. Just when I think it’s frozen and go to hit it again—it prints."
"No! I don’t hit it twice. I only think about it—and it goes."
"Okay, email. I open Outlook—it’s slow. I think, ‘Fine, I’ll close and try again’—and bam, it loads. Right then. Not earlier. Not later. Director says ‘My internet is slow,’ and right then—bam—perfect speed."
She rolls her eyes, exasperated.
"I click—nothing. I intend to click—it responds. We say something’s wrong—it fixes itself right then. Not later. Then."
"So you think it’s reading your thoughts?"
"I think it’s not acting normal."
"Right. So if I say I want a coffee machine at home, it’ll appear?"
"If it does, you’ll freak out first."
"How about I ask for a tax write-off?"
"We’re not talking miracles, just… what-the-hell stuff. But if it works, I want half."
"Okay. Let a million drop into my account."
"Sure. Since it’s apparently waiting on us."
"Too useful. It won’t do that."
"Then it’s not a miracle. Just coincidence."
"What’s wrong with you?! I’m telling you, it’s not normal."
"Let’s just see what your ghost system’s up to."
She watches him go, arms folded.
The server room table groans under the weight of his bag. Eight, maybe ten kilos, but he’s long used to it. Leather. Custom-made. Durable—like everything he chooses. Olvir drops into a battered chair with no back, flips open his armored laptop. Rugged, IP67 (or 69, if you believe the seller—not that he’s about to test it). The previous one died gloriously in an energy drink flood. This one’s supposed to be tougher. He’s not risking fluids just yet.
He cracks his knuckles. Opens the rack—domain controller, file server, both Cisco switches, the UPS—all blinking steadily. Good. Domain first. He goes through the usual checks by rote. Windows Server logs in slowly, as if it too needs coffee first. Time service, domain, mail—all green. Logs show past errors: 4771, 4768—auth failures when people couldn’t log in. 1053—domain timed out, workstations freaked. 2087—lost DNS contact. Normal symptoms during a network hiccup. Now? Clean.
He winces, closes the KVM session, locks the rack, walks back to the desk.
It was the network, as always. Windows just panicked. Nothing new.
His paw finds the side pocket of the bag—he checks contents: expansion cards, adapters, cables, extra batteries, toolset, tester, oscilloscope, cordless soldering iron, lockpicks. Everything that might be needed.
He plugs in the console cable—white-and-azure blue, fabric-wrapped, custom-made gift. Warm to the touch—not cold like stock ones.
Uptime: 200+ days. Sounds about right. That’s when he last had to restart the stack.
Interfaces scroll onto screen. He scans quickly.
Except Gi1/0/3. And VLAN 66. Not in the docs. Speed: 10 Mbps half-duplex. Connection type: 1/10EtherealTX. Wait, what?
He reads the config. Slowly leans back (nearly falls—no backrest).
Scrolls the logs. Packet loss. Errors. Usual noise. But one line catches his eye.
Configuration changed—at 4:13 a.m. From "abyss." By something unknown.
That port links to something unidentified. He glances at the rack. All patch cords are familiar—gray for infra, white for workstations. But Gi1/0/3 has a short, flat black one. Console-style.
He doesn’t remember ordering any like that.
He crouches, traces the cable. It disappears into patch panel, socket 17.
Socket 17: Guest lounge — Unused.
He stands. Follows the route. Socket behind the couch where couriers usually sit.
Ignores secretary’s question. Yanks the couch.
Back to the server room. Laptop open. Detailed scan.
Nothing on CDP. Config clean. VLAN deleted. Port shut down. Ghost gone.
Running-config saved to startup-config. Done.
His instincts scream against "just happened."
He closes the laptop. Heads out.
She’s waiting by the door, arms crossed. Tail would twitch if it were longer. Ears angled forward.
"Clean? Or didn’t find what you were looking for?"
He gives her a mildly irritated look.
"You said it’s just glitches."
"And you said things don’t just fix themselves," she grins.
"So, Olvir, starting to believe in something?"
"Mhm. That’s how it starts," she shrugs.
"Notice anything before the issues began?"
"Hmm… don’t know… maybe… you moved the couch again?"
Olvir exits the server room into the office. Still a fair number of people—some wrapping up tasks, others packing up, a few idly scrolling. A normal evening—if not for the morning chaos.
He asks casually—nothing pushy. Anyone notice network issues?
Standard replies: not really, maybe some lag, mail delayed once or twice. Someone recalls the intranet hanging last week. Nothing unusual.
But the more he asks, the more weirdness surfaces.
Turns out, this didn’t start today. It’s been weeks. Maybe more. No one paid attention—a frozen printer, a PC slow to boot. Normal stuff.
But dig deeper: nearly everyone experienced something odd.
Sales manager remembers his desktop logging off by itself last Tuesday. Swears he hadn’t clicked anything. Just thoughtabout it.
In accounting, someone says the reporting software minimized a second before they were about to do it themselves.
Someone jokes: "Guess the office reads minds now."
But this morning was worse. Not all machines booted first try. Some hung at startup. Had to reboot manually.
He’s about to head to the cameras when one employee snaps his fingers.
"Oh! Right. The TV! Almost forgot."
"Well… we came in, and it was already on. Nobody turned it on. But it was showing… I don’t even know."
"I can’t! It was on, but not right. At first I thought it was stuck on the screensaver—but there were… stripes. Not the usual kind, not bad reception. They were regular. Too clean. Distorted, but like on purpose."
"At some point they looked like letters. You know—if you squinted. From far away. I thought maybe Chinese, or the encoding broke. But up close—nothing made sense."
"I’d get it if it glitched, froze, lagged. But this… it just was. Fixed. Like someone drew it."
"Remote didn’t work. At all. Tried batteries. Buttons. Nothing. Someone said unplug it."
"Yeah. After that it booted normally."
Olvir returns to his laptop. Inputs the IP. Accesses the surveillance system. Four cameras: lobby, open space, accounting safe, hallway.
Lobby. Night footage. Empty hall, reception desk, glass doors. Normal.
3:13 — glitches start. Subtle. Horizontal lines. Corrupted frames. Image jitters like unstable sync.
3:30 — object edges blur. Neon office sign casts weird, trailing shadows. 3:50 — frame tearing. Like reality made of broken jigsaw.
4:00 — black screen. Not "no signal." No noise. No gray. Just void.
4:13 — pixels reappear. Slowly. Frame by frame.
4:14 — image back to normal. As if nothing happened.
Open-space cam—above the TV. Doesn’t show screen, but light patterns. 3:13 — same glitches. 3:50 — TV glows. 4:00 — darkness. But TV still lit. 4:13 — static ends. TV’s glow remains.
Accounting. Safe cam. Mild distortion. Nothing serious.
Hallway — same pattern. 3:13—glitches. 3:50—distortions. 4:00—void. 4:13—restoration.
Olvir realizes he’s baring teeth. Low growl. Ears pinned. Scruff raised. Claws dug into desk edge.
Instinctive anger. Deeper. Older.
That ancient tension ancestors felt when something wrong stirred in the dark.
He breathes. Slowly. Steadies himself. Pads release plastic edge.
Heartbeat loud. Too fast. He notes it. Regains calm.
Olvir heads downstairs. The business center’s security team: one yawning, the other scrolling on a tablet. The monitors show cameras—hallways, parking, entrance. They notice him approaching.
"Evening," one replies, voice neutral.
"I need footage from outside Horizon-M’s office. 4:13 a.m."
Yawning guard raises an eyebrow.
"Just checking—our recording got corrupted."
The tablet guard shrugs, sets it aside.
"I’ll take a look, but we don’t give archive access to third parties."
He turns to the monitors. Cameras load.
Olvir watches closely. The guard doesn’t react. Just scrolls like it’s routine.
"Office was empty. As expected."
"Look: 4:12—fine. 4:13—brief glitch, happens sometimes. 4:14—back to normal."
"Nothing strange. Cameras get interference sometimes. Especially if the server’s under load."
Olvir narrows his eyes. The guy’s calm. Like this is normal.
"You get interference often at exactly the same time?"
"Not always, but it’s not rare. Buffers overflow, servers lag, techs do stuff."
Next: fifth floor. Data center admins.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" — the jackal smirks instantly. "Windows update strike again?"
"Clients seeing ghosts on the net again?" — the fox adds lazily, stretched out in a chair.
He looks like he walked out of a club, not a server room: tight jeans, neon anime hoodie, tiny earrings. Graceful, feline motion. The jackal’s the classic techie: eternal hoodie, old hacker forum shirt, massive headphones, fingers tapping away.
"I wish," Olvir mutters, leaning on a rack.
They’ve known him for years. He shows up often—tickets, network issues. Sometimes, drinks after a long week. Usually, distant.
"Anything weird on the backbone last night?"
"Already checked our end," Olvir shrugs. "Just verifying."
Jackal clicks around, scans logs.
"Nope. Clean. No drops. If it’s your clients, probably another PEBKAC."
"You know it’s not them," Olvir mutters.
"Sixty-six? Or six-six-six? Spooky subnet! Darknet admin, demonic VLAN!"
"Maybe you misread it. Was it VLAN 69?"
"Sure. With everything in soft pinks," Olvir rolls his eyes.
"Hey, maybe you blinked," the fox traces his claw along the keyboard edge.
"I don’t recall us having a VLAN 66."
"Maybe someone’s idea of a joke?"
"If so, they ghosted in," Jackal mutters, eyes on logs.
Olvir says nothing. They’re teasing—but it doesn’t help.
"If anything comes up—tell me."
"Sure. If ghost admins rise from the dark fiber, you’ll be first to know," Jackal laughs.
"What if it’s a glitch?" the fox teases, tilting his head.
"Then I’ll bring beer," Olvir mutters, heading out.
"Now that’s the right protocol," Jackal winks.
He doesn’t look back. Just waves a paw.
Olvir sits in the server room. Just in case, he re-enables Gi1/0/3. Just to check—maybe the weird device reappeared.
Nothing. CDP blank. Logs clean. Port active, but no link.
He watches the screen. Quietly.
Then turns off the display. Leans back. Listens to the steady hum of the servers.
The office slowly empties. No more keyboard clatter. No more phones. Doors shut. Lights dim. Footsteps fade.
Eventually, only the soft hum of fans, the low buzz of the UPS, and a faint glow from monitors remain.
At 19:05, a generous payment arrives.
He disables the port, closes the laptop, starts packing up.
"You planning to spend the night in here?"
He silently zips his bag. Runs a paw over the rack shelf—checking for forgotten gear. His eyes catch the black patch cord, still where he left it. He grabs it, coils it, stuffs it into his coat pocket.
The elevator glides downward. Smooth. Slight sway. Olvir stands near the panel, fingers idly rubbing the patch cord. She leans against the wall, arms crossed. Her yellow lynx eyes narrowed, ears flicking in anticipation.
"So, what did you find?" she asks, lifting an eyebrow.
"Network glitch," he replies. "Just strange."
"What else? Demons in the switches?"
"Come on. You’re not so sure anymore, huh?"
"You always said—if it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. No ghosts, no magic."
Elevator nears ground floor. Lights flicker—just a little. For a heartbeat, her pupils vanish into solid black voids. Her phone chimes. She checks it, scrolls briefly. Silence settles again, save for the soft mechanical hum.
"Well then, ghostbuster," she smirks, stepping out into the dim lobby.
Olvir follows. It’s nearly empty. Security yawns behind the desk, scrolling something mindless.
"Need a lift?" she asks, tossing on her coat and jangling keys.
He hesitates. Would be easier. No packed train. No wind.
"Suit yourself," she shrugs. "After today, I’d pick the car."
He lingers, watching her vanish into the parking lot gloom. Then he moves toward the door, paws in coat pockets. Cold air bites his nose, clears his head.
He stands outside. Not rushing. Wind chills his snout, tugs at his collar. Around him: the city’s evening hum. Cars. Distant voices. Blinking traffic lights. He scrolls aimlessly on his phone. Smokes. Just to organize his thoughts.
Each thought is syrup-thick. Slow. Like water stubbornly heating in an old kettle.
He hasn’t decided where to go. Not because there’s no plan—because none of the plans matter.
Part of him wants to disappear for a while. Another wants to charge back in and keep hunting.
The doors behind him hiss open. The world feels two notches brighter.
The fox admin steps out like from a spotlight. Perfume. Scarf tossed on. Coat sleeve folded just so. Lean frame moving with feline flair.
One paw holds a phone—video call. A stream of names, ideas, half-promises, plans without pauses. Without commas.
He doesn’t have to look to know—it’s a party.
Music booms. Someone yells for shots. Someone flirts with the bartender. It’s loud, chaotic, warm.
"Oh, you're still here!" the fox beams, as if he'd been waiting. "Come on, let’s go! Pub’s full blast—artists, coders, designers, some dude who makes custom jackets, couple of those girls from theater school. Seriously, if you bail again—you’ll miss out. You’ve got a flexible schedule, right? I’ve got tomorrow off. We’ve got the whole bar. Live coding jam, someone with an electric violin, don’t ask what genre—it’s pure chaos. You need this."
Olvir lifts his eyes from the screen. Stares.
Like his brain needs time to parse the glittering wall of sound.
"I’ve got another job," he murmurs.
"Ugh. Seriously? Evening gig? Here? Now? You just don’t want fun. Admit it."
No scolding. Just that warm, persistent pressure to pull him in.
Olvir smiles faintly. Doesn’t look away.
"Hah. You always say that. Whatever."
He steps back, nods—not goodbye, just exit.
And fades—into car lights, the noise of Savyolovskaya, the swirl of cold.
Olvir stays. Exhales. Flicks ash. Dumps the butt.
Checks the map. Route to Lesnaya food court. Not the closest.
Thirty minutes later, Olvir sits at a food stall counter—pan-Asian, cheap, exactly right.
He ordered a double portion of duck rice, no extra sauce, crispy skin. A splurge on today’s pay. They handed him a sweating bottle of Tsingtao and a plastic cup he ignores.
This is what he needs: drink from the bottle, ambient kitchen noise, sharp smells of chili and oyster sauce, murmur of other people's conversations and rustling takeout bags.
That’s when he hears laughter behind him—sharp, glass-shard laughter. Young voice, cracked from parties and hookah:
"#DemonGlitch, bro, I swear! It just showed me her pics! I didn’t even swipe yet!"
"Come on," answers a nasal voice, chewing mid-sentence. "You’ll say next it tried to bang you. It’s just iOS Theta. Last patch’s a bit loopy, but it says it’s predictive UI. I like it. Siri told me where to buy cheap beer yesterday."
"Yeah. Through Infernal Descent. Not on the store, but I found a mirror. All clean. The previous builds were solid. Theta’s just... beta-weird."
Laughter from the next table. Someone already typing into their phone: "infernal descent". One guy reads aloud: “Unlock new layers of your iPhone,” and snorts.
Olvir doesn’t move. Just listens. Chews duck on autopilot. Doesn’t know them. Never seen them. Just loud night crowd. Here for vibes, not food.
That’s when a screen flickers.
The food court’s ad display—usually rotating sushi gifs, burger promos, QR codes, smiling cartoon chefs—jolts.
It shifts. Rhythm changes. Animation goes silky smooth, too smooth. Image smears, like a bad codec.
The smiling raccoon chef’s face melts downward, revealing bone. The promo text “special offer” turns to: 𝔪𝔶𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔤𝔦𝔣𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔰
Three seconds. Then—back. Sushi rotates. QR pulses. Raccoon grins again.
No one notices. Only him. Too fast. Too subtle.
He drinks his third Tsingtao slowly. Hoping alcohol will sand off the edge. Make it banal. "Tired," "overworked," "misheard."
Duck’s gone. Beer’s warm. But Infernal Descent won’t leave his head. And that screen... too precise. Too... aimed.
He sighs. Decides: time to head home.
Thirty minutes later, he’s on the train.
New Ivolga. Red and white. Soft lights. Cushioned seats.
Few passengers: some teens with headphones, a snoozing engineer in a bright vest, two elderly folks.
He sits by the window. Bag at his feet. Sinks into the seat. Pulls out phone—
Next station: ŦїM̸иR̷͝яZ̴3V̴-≠K̴∆¥∆
Current time: 22:66
Weather: –73°C, Gloom
He squints. Blinks. Looks again.
Next station: Timiryazevskaya
Time: 22:32
Weather: +6°C, Clear
But in his head—22:66 still there.
He leans back. Cold air seeps from the vents.
Deep breath. Through the nose. Looks out the window.
Stations pass by. Lights. Empty platforms. Graffiti.
"Next stop: Ghouloprudnaya," says the PA, warped. Female voice. Like it’s underwater.
Snaps awake. Looks at display.
Station: G̸x0l̴0P̵r̷U̵d̴-≠N̶∆¥
Next: V0iDniki
He jumps up. Bag slaps his leg. He stumbles out, still dazed.
Cold slams his face. Train groans. Lights vanish into night.
He reads the sign: Dolgoprudnaya. 22:33. Normal. Almost.
Enough to shake the haze. Beer buzz gone.
Heads outside. Walks to his bus. Route sign glitches. Symbols scroll into gibberish.
He lowers his gaze. No. Walking.
He gets home past eleven. Flat’s dark, cold, like no one’s lived here. And in a way—no one has.
He dumps his coat over a chair. No lights in the hallway. Streetlight slices through the blinds.
Bag drops to the floor. His paw flicks the kitchen switch.
Coffee. Yes. Something real. Something solid.
He grabs the new bag of Colombian grounds. Rips it open. Familiar scent: dry, smoky.
Measures it into the dripper. Pours hot water. Waits.
By the time it’s seeping—he’s already at the laptop.
Hands move without thought. Screen glows.
Nothing concrete. DJ mixes. Promo junk. Three Telegram channels with zero subs.
He digs deeper. 4PDA. Forums. Archive threads.
"...flashed iOS 18.1 θ4 via ID-channel, smooth. Siri’s like telepathic now..."
"...flash drive checksum’s wrong but it boots. Better than stock..."
"...now my phone picks tracks by mood. And nails it."
"...swear it talked back, but not like Siri. Maybe I’m just tired."
"...screen flicks on at 12:12 sharp. Daily."
"...ping’s zero. But not in a good way."
"...Discord icon blinked. Not animated. Blinked."
At first he grimaces—conspiracy nonsense. But each page gets weirder.
Then the post. No name. No avatar.
Every bug is a door. Not all of them close.
Link. To a Telegram channel named INFERNAL DESCENT.
Private. “This channel is not accessible. You need an invite link.”
Checks the comments. Dozens of “same here.” “My camera too.” “Mine whispered.”
One posts a video still—light warping like melting plastic.
Someone says their fridge beeped at 5:55. No reason.
One thread: CDP name VV0o0Oi19. Others saw it too. Screenshot’s corrupted. Or doesn’t load.
He closes the tab. Reopens. Clicks the link. Again:
Fan hum. Icons blinking. Streetlight shadows twitching overhead.
Head slumps. Paws slip off keyboard.