Genesis. Volume 2

October 16, 1986. Chicago. Claire's apartment. Evening and deep night. Max couldn't sleep. He lay on the floor, his rolled-up jacket under his head, staring at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster formed a map he didn't recognize. The ceiling lamp was off, but streetlight seeped into the room—yellow, murky, diluted by fog. It fell on the wall, on the spread-out maps, on his sleeping friends, and in that light, everything looked unreal. Like a stage set for a play that hadn't started yet. He turned onto his side. Lisa slept by the couch, clutching a pencil stub in her hand. Her face was calm, almost childlike, but her fingers—even in sleep—kept making small movements, as if she were drawing in the air. Jenny lay on the couch, covered by someone else's coat. Her breathing was uneven; she sometimes twitched, and then the locket with the letter "B" clinked softly against a button. Arthur sat at the table, his head resting on his crossed arms. He wasn't asleep—Max could see his eyes glinting in the darkness. Sasha and Rachel had settled in the hallway by the front door. Sasha said it was safer that way—two shooters covering the only entrance. Rachel didn't object. She'd said little since returning with her bandaged shoulder. Max watched her and thought: "Something's off." But he couldn't pinpoint what. Claire slept in her room. Before turning in, she'd made tea—chamomile, calming—but Max hadn't drunk any. He didn't need calm. He needed to stay awake. He was afraid that if he fell asleep, he'd see Christian's face—the way it had become after the Maestro's touch. Gray as ash. Frozen in a smile. He sat up, reached for his boots. Lisa stirred but didn't wake. Max pulled on his jacket and stepped into the hallway. "Where to?" Sasha asked. She wasn't asleep. Her pistol lay on her lap. "The roof. To get some air." "Don't be long." Rachel, sitting by the door, watched him with a long, steady gaze. Max felt it on his back—cold, assessing. He said nothing. The roof was flat, cluttered with old crates and rusty ventilation pipes. The wind off Lake Michigan blew constantly—damp, biting, smelling of fish and seaweed. Max stood at the parapet and looked out at the city. Chicago wasn't sleeping. Below, streetlights burned, lone taxis crawled, neon signs of diners flickered. Somewhere in the distance, near the port, a ship's horn sounded. All of it was real, ordinary, alive—and yet alien. As if the city existed apart from them. As if it didn't know that tomorrow, in the Palace Theater, something would happen that would change everything. Max pulled out his knife. Turned it over in his fingers. The blade glinted in the dim light. He thought about Rachel. About how she'd appeared on the train—at the right moment, with the right words. About how Arthur had handed her the dagger. About how she'd returned this morning, wounded, but not too badly. Too clean a wound. Too steady a voice. "You're paranoid," he told himself. "You've always been paranoid. She's on the list. She's an agent." But paranoia had saved his life twice. And he'd learned to trust it. Behind him, the door creaked. Max turned, gripping his knife. It was Arthur. He stood in the doorway, squinting against the wind. "I thought you were sleeping," Max said. "I thought you didn't smoke." "I don't. Just standing." Arthur walked over and stood beside him. He had no jacket, just a t-shirt, but he didn't seem to notice the cold. "What are you thinking about?" he asked. "Rachel." "What about her?" "Are you sure we can trust her?" Arthur paused. "She's on the list." "I've heard that. But did you show the list to Sasha?" "No." "Why not?" "Because Tucker said they were clean agents. Because I..." Arthur faltered. "Because I want her to be real. We need someone who knows Chicago. Who knows the Maestro. Who can watch our backs." "And if she's not real?" "Then we'll find out tomorrow." Max shook his head but didn't argue. He could see Arthur gripping the parapet—his fingers white, knuckles standing out. He was holding on by sheer will. "Are you scared?" Max asked. "Yes." Of what?" "That I'm wrong. That I'm leading everyone into a trap. That tomorrow someone won't come back, and it'll be my fault." He took a breath. "I lost my father's face. I don't want to lose you too." Max said nothing. He just stood beside him as the wind whipped their hair and the city below lived its nocturnal life. "Let's go," he said at last. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day." They went back inside. Arthur lay down in his spot by the table. Max sat against the wall, gripping his knife. He didn't sleep until dawn. The room was quiet. Only the breathing of five teenagers—tomorrow's soldiers. Only the ticking of the old kitchen clock. Only the rain, which had started again outside. Lisa, still asleep on the floor, tightened her grip on her pencil. Her lips silently formed the words: "I'll draw a way out. For all of them." Then she fell still. Max closed his eyes. He didn't know if their plan would work. Didn't know if Rachel would betray them. Didn't know if he himself would survive. But he knew one thing: when the Maestro stepped onto that stage, he would be standing. Knife in hand. Friends at his back. Dawn hadn't arrived yet, but it was already promising to come.