Genesis. Volume 2

October 29, 1986. London. The Iron Whale Hostel. Evening. London greeted them not as a city, but as a meteorological event. Emma was the first out of the taxi, and she stopped dead on the pavement, because the air here was nothing like New York's or Chicago's. It was thick, damp, almost tangible. The fog didn't hang—it lived. It seeped under collars, settled on eyelashes in fine cold beads, crawled into lungs and made breathing just a little heavier than usual. "Like an aquarium," Max said, climbing out behind her. He winced, rubbed his face with his palm. "Only the water's cold." "It's not water," Lisa replied, glancing around. "It's... I don't know. Damp." She held her sketchbook in her left hand, pressed to her chest, looking around with that expression Emma had learned to read as "memorizing every detail." Her right arm, still in its cast, hung in a sling—a white blot against her dark jacket. The Iron Whale Hostel stood in the East End, in an alley between two blank walls. Chipped brick, a wet sign that someone had hung long ago and forgotten. The door was old, clad in black iron, with a ring-shaped handle. Emma pulled it toward her, and the door gave way with a heavy, low groan. Inside, it smelled of old wood and coal. And something else—Emma couldn't identify what. Maybe a century of damp. Maybe something older. The clerk sat behind the counter, his head resting on his folded arms. He wasn't asleep—just sat with his eyes open, staring into space, and when Emma approached, he blinked twice before focusing on her. "Did you book?" he asked. His voice was indifferent, like someone who'd seen it all and no longer had any surprises left. "Four rooms. Five nights. Under Walker." The clerk nodded, reached under the counter, and pulled out keys—heavy brass ones, with plastic tags scratched with numbers. 7, 8, 9, 10. "Third floor. Toilet at the end of the hall. Breakfast from eight to ten." "Anything to eat now?" Max asked, appearing behind Emma. "Pub across the street. Kitchen's open till eleven." Max nodded and took the key for himself and Arthur. They climbed the stairs. Each step creaked in its own way, and Lisa, bringing up the rear, commented softly: "E-flat," "F-sharp," "B-flat." Max turned. "Are you identifying notes by stair creaks?" "I'm just listening," Lisa said. "It helps me not think about other things." "Like what?" "Like the fact that someone might be waiting for us here." Emma stopped on the second-floor landing. She turned. "What did you say?" "The door to the room," Lisa said, nodding upward. "When we were coming up, I was looking. It's ajar." Emma climbed higher. Room 7's door was indeed not fully closed—a finger-wide gap, dark as a knife cut. She pushed it open with her shoulder. Inside, a light was on—dim, yellow, from a single lamp on the nightstand. On the bed lay towels. Four gray towels, stacked neatly. Not carelessly—neatly, as if someone knew four people were coming and had prepared in advance. "The manager?" Max asked, peering over her shoulder. "The manager was downstairs asleep with his mouth open over a crossword," Emma said. "He's not the towel type." She walked into the room. Checked the bathroom—empty. The closet—empty. Under the beds—empty. Liam's dog tag in her jacket pocket grew warm—she could feel the heat through the fabric, even without touching it. "Someone's been here," she said, returning to the hall. "Before us." "Or is still here," Arthur added, coming up last. He looked tired—after the flight, after everything before the flight. Shadows lay deep under his eyes, and he spoke more quietly than usual, as if saving his voice. "We'll check the other rooms," Sasha said. She'd already taken the key to room 10, opened the door. Inside, darkness. She turned on the light—empty. Towels on the bed. The same neatness. "All the rooms are prepared," Jenny said, coming out of room 9. "By someone who knew how many of us there are." "Or someone who just likes order," Max said. "In the East End?" Jenny raised an eyebrow. They paused for a second. Then Emma clapped her hands—loudly, to break the silence like shattering glass. "Alright. We'll split up. Girls in 7 and 8, boys in 9 and 10. Don't unpack, sleep in your clothes. In an hour—dinner at the pub. Questions?" "Yeah," Max said. "Which pub?" "Across the street. I already said." "I thought you were joking." "I never joke about food." He smirked—faintly, but still a smirk. They dispersed to their rooms. Emma entered room 7, dropped her backpack on the bed by the window. Lisa sat on the second bed, pulled out her sketchbook, and began drawing—a floor plan she'd memorized on the way up. Jenny checked the window—it faced a blank wall of the neighboring building, wet and streaked with dark stains, as if someone had been crying against it for years. "The view," Jenny said. "Functional," Emma replied. She pulled the dog tag from her pocket. The metal was warm—not hot, but noticeably warm, almost alive. She turned it over in her fingers, stared at the letters "CROSS," and didn't know what to think. "Will he meet us?" Lisa asked without looking up from her drawing. "Liam? He was supposed to. But he hasn't called." "Maybe he's busy." "Maybe." Emma put the dog tag back in her pocket. An hour later, they sat in the pub. It was called the Black Anchor—a dark blue sign with faded gilt lettering, a low ceiling with wooden beams, walls the color of old mustard. It smelled of beer, fried onions, and something else—Emma couldn't identify it, but it wasn't unpleasant. Just unfamiliar. They ordered fish and chips, tea, and one pint of beer for everyone—Max insisted they try the local brew. The beer turned out to be warm and bitter. Max took a sip, grimaced, and didn't touch it again. "They say it's tradition," he said. "They also say traditions are sometimes stupid," Emma replied. She ate her chips—hot, greasy, salty—and stared out the window. The fog beyond the glass had thickened, turning the streetlights into blurred yellow blobs. Arthur sat across from her, prodding his fish with a fork. He barely ate—just moved pieces around his plate, pretending. "Eat," Emma said. "Don't want to." "You need to." "You're not my mother." "Thanks for the reminder." He smirked—not cheerfully, but at least not hollowly. "I'm scared," he said quietly, so only Emma could hear. "Of what?" "That Kane isn't the main thing. That the main thing is what's behind him. And that we're not ready." "We're never ready," Emma said. "We just do what we can." "And if that's not enough?" "Then we'll do more." He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded and picked up his fork. After dinner, they returned to the hostel. At the reception desk sat a different clerk—a young guy with a pimply face and perpetually startled eyes. He wasn't asleep; he was flipping through a newspaper. "Good evening," he said. "Everything alright?" "Everything's fine," Emma replied. She went up to the third floor, entered her room, and slid the bolt—old, rusty, held together by sheer will and two screws. She checked the window. Locked. Lisa was already in bed, covered with a thin blanket. Jenny sat on the windowsill, staring into the darkness beyond the glass. "Get some sleep," Emma said. "Don't want to." "Early start tomorrow." "I know." Jenny didn't move. Emma didn't argue. She lay down on her bed, closed her eyes. Sleep didn't come—too many thoughts, too many unknowns spinning under her skull. The dog tag in her pocket warmed again—faintly, barely perceptibly. At 3:15 a.m., Emma woke up. Not from a sound—from the absence of it. The silence was too dense, too deep. Even the building had stopped creaking. Even the pipes had fallen silent—they usually grumbled, but now they had gone completely quiet. The red thread on her wrist pulsed—faintly, like a second vein beneath the skin. Then it flared. Once—sharp, short, bright. For a second, the room was lit crimson, as if lightning had flashed outside. Then it died. Emma lay still. She stared at the ceiling. Nothing else happened. After a few minutes, she sat up, pulled a scrap of paper from her backpack—a torn piece of an old map she carried as scratch paper—and wrote down the time with a ballpoint pen. 3:14. She folded the paper and put it with her dog tag. They had arrived at 10:47 p.m. Whoever had marked their presence was in no hurry. Emma lay back down. Closed her eyes. This time, sleep came quickly—without dreams, without faces, without smells. Just darkness, flat and empty. In the morning, she told no one. But at breakfast, when Lisa asked how she'd slept, Emma replied: "Fine." "You look like you didn't sleep," Lisa said. "I always look like this." Lisa gave her a long look. Then she nodded and returned to her oatmeal. Emma finished her tea. The dog tag in her pocket was cold. She didn't check to see if it would warm up again. She didn't want to know. She just wanted to have breakfast in a foreign city, in a damp October, and not think about the fact that someone already knew—they were here. It didn't work. But she'd at least tried.