Genesis. Volume 2

December 4, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, kitchen. 12 a.m. Max sat at the kitchen table and stared at the knife. His mug of tea had long gone cold—he'd brewed it at eleven, taken one sip, and forgotten it. The tea leaves had settled at the bottom in dark flakes, like silt. Max didn't drink. He just sat, gripping the mug with his left hand, and stared. The knife lay on the countertop. An ordinary kitchen knife—not the one he wore on his belt, not the one he'd given Jack. A different one. With a wooden handle, darkened by time, and a dull blade with small nicks. It was used for cutting bread. And cheese. And sausage. Max had left it there on purpose. An hour ago, when he'd cut bread for dinner—he hadn't put it away. Deliberately. He'd placed it on the edge of the table and sat down across from it. He looked at the knife and waited. Just waited—no thought, no impulse. Just a fact: the knife lay on the table, and Max sat across from it. The thought came not immediately. But it came. Quick, ready, as if it had always been there and was just waiting to be noticed. Not suicidal. Another kind. A thought about how it feels when the knife meets resistance of flesh. Not the pain—the moment itself. The transition. When the blade enters the skin, passes through muscle, finds what's inside. He'd felt it in Chicago. The knife had entered Rachel easily—much more easily than he'd expected. No crunch, no push. Just—entered. Like into butter, only butter was warmer. And in that moment—for a second, for a fraction of a second—he'd felt not horror. Relief. As if something inside him, something he hadn't known existed, had finally exhaled. Max stared at the knife. The knife didn't move. A yellow, cold gleam reflected on the blade from the lamp. "No," he said aloud. His voice sounded muffled, as if from under a blanket. He stood, took the knife by the handle, and put it in the drawer. Closed it. Wood met wood. He sat back down. The tea had gone completely cold—it had turned dark, almost black, with an oily film on the surface. He poured it down the sink. The water washed away the leaves, leaving a dark stain. "A thought-fact," Max thought. "A thought-memory. Not a plan, not a desire. Just knowledge." He didn't know what to do with it. December 5, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, Arthur's room. 4 p.m. Max knocked on the door. Once. Short. "Come in," Arthur said. He sat on the floor, sorting through maps. He held down the corners with a glass of coffee—cold, with a film on the surface. He saw Max and nodded. "Sit down." Max sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't speak right away. He looked at the maps—Brookfield, the surroundings, red dots where Lisa had marked positions. "Arthur." "Yeah?" "I need to tell you something." "I'm listening." Max paused. Then he began—without preamble, without buildup. "In Chicago, when I put the knife into Rachel... I liked it." Arthur's expression didn't change. He kept listening. "Not the pain. Not the blood. The moment itself. When the blade enters. You feel it pass through skin, muscle... as if..." he faltered. "As if you're doing something right." "And how do you feel now?" "Shame. And fear. Not of you. Of myself." "That's normal." "No. Normal is when you don't like it. But I... I had to convince myself it was wrong." "Did you convince yourself?" "Sort of. But the thought remains. It doesn't go away." Arthur set down the map. Looked at Max. "In the tunnel, when Kane offered me my father's face, I hesitated for three seconds. Remember?" "I remember." "I was ready to sell you all out. For him." "You said no." "Because I realized I wouldn't make it in time. That Kane would cheat. That the price would be higher. Not because I'm a hero." "I know." "And how do you feel?" Max asked. "Angry. At myself. That there's a place inside me like that. A hole in the shape of my father." "Like me with the knife." "Like you with the knife." They fell silent. The room was quiet—only the clock ticking on the wall, and outside it was starting to get dark. "What are you planning to do?" Arthur asked. "Nothing. Know. Watch. Not let it control me." "And if it controls you on its own?" "Then you'll stop me." "With what?" "I don't know. But you'll find a way." Arthur nodded. Not in agreement—in acknowledgment that he'd received the information. "Deal," he said. "Deal." Max stood. At the door, he turned. "Arthur." "Yeah?" "You won't tell the others?" "It's not my story." "It's mine. But I'm not ready." "Then stay quiet. Until you are." Max left. Arthur stayed sitting on the floor, looking at the maps. "Three seconds," he thought. "Three seconds—that's a whole lifetime." He picked up the glass of coffee and took a sip. Cold. Bitter. December 6, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, Max's room. 1 a.m. Max couldn't sleep. He stood by the window, looking out at the street. The streetlights were out—they'd burned out last month, and no one had replaced them. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the yard was dark as a basement. Only the light from the headquarters windows fell on the wet asphalt in yellow squares. And in that light—a figure. Sasha. She'd left the house through the back door. Jacket, backpack, a quick stride toward the industrial district. She didn't look back. Max watched her for a few seconds. Then he grabbed his jacket, pulled on his sneakers—didn't lace them, in a hurry. He followed. He kept his distance—close enough not to lose her in the dark, far enough that his footsteps wouldn't be heard. Sasha walked quickly, confidently—not the first time, not the second. She knew the way, jumping over puddles without slowing down. She went to an abandoned warehouse by the river. An old brick building with broken windows and a rusted roof. The door—iron, with a padlock that hung open. Sasha went inside. She didn't turn on the light. Max waited. He counted in his head. The cold crept under his jacket, the wind from the river was damp and smelled of silt. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Sasha came out. Without her backpack. She took a different route—longer, circling through residential blocks. Max didn't follow her. He waited until her silhouette disappeared around the corner. Then he entered the warehouse. Darkness. It smelled of dampness, rust, and something else—sweet, like old perfume. Max turned on his phone's flashlight. The beam slid across the concrete floor, the walls, the bare rafters overhead. On the floor—a chalk circle. About a meter in diameter. Neat, even—Lisa couldn't draw like that even with her right hand. The circle was closed, without breaks, white on gray concrete. In the center—Sasha's backpack. Open. Max approached. Looked inside. Inside—a metal container. Empty. The lid was open, inside only a gray residue—like from old grease, or from what had been there before. Next to it—a note. Folded in half. Max unfolded it. The letters were in Russian. Block letters, black ink. "Package received. Next contact—standard interval." He read it three times. Then he put the note in his pocket, closed the container, zipped the backpack. He stepped out. Outside, it was cold. The wind blew from the river, and his hands were freezing without gloves. He clenched them into fists and walked back. "Who is she passing information to?" he thought. "Who needs an empty container? And what was inside?" He didn't know. But he knew it was now his problem. December 8, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, Arthur's room. 7 p.m. Max waited two days. Not because he was thinking it over—he'd understood it all the first night. He waited to see if it would happen again. Sasha didn't go to the warehouse. Not the next day, not the day after. Maybe she was waiting for the next contact. Maybe she knew she was being watched. On the third day, Max walked into Arthur's room. Sat down across from him. "Sasha goes to the warehouse," he said. "I saw her." "When?" "The night before last. At night." "What was she doing there?" "She left a container. Empty. And a note. In Russian." "What did the note say?" Max handed him the sheet. Arthur read it. "Package received," he repeated. "What package?" "I don't know." "Next contact—standard interval." That means it's not the first time. "Yeah." "Did you follow her?" "Only that night. She hasn't gone back." "And what do you think?" "I think she's working for someone." "Kane?" "Kane is dead. Or crumbled." "The Circle?" "Maybe. But why the secrecy?" Arthur paused. He clenched the note in his fist, then loosened it. "We won't confront her," he said. "Why?" "Surveillance is more informative than confrontation. She's not stupid. If we ask, she'll either lie or tell the truth. Either way..." "Bad," Max finished. "I know." "So—we wait. Watch. Gather information." "And if she's dangerous?" "Then we'll find out. And we'll act." "Are you sure?" "No. But there's no other plan." Max nodded. "I'll keep an eye on her." "Carefully." "Always." He left. Arthur was alone. He looked at the note. The letters—unfamiliar, but understandable from context. Russian. Someone from Eastern European Keepers? From Prague? Or from Moscow? He put the note in the desk drawer. Next to the iron coin. December 9, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, kitchen. 8 p.m. Sasha looked at Max across the table. One long gaze—steady, direct, without hostility. Then she looked away. "Pass the salt," she said. Max handed it over. She salted her potatoes, put the salt shaker back. "Did you go out today?" she asked. "No." "And yesterday?" "No." "Weird. I thought you liked walking at night." She smiled—not coldly, not warmly. Just smiled. Max didn't answer. Emma sat nearby. Her gaze shifted from Sasha to Max and back. "What's going on with you two?" she asked. "Nothing," Max replied. "Just asking," Sasha said. Emma didn't believe them. But she didn't ask. After dinner, Max stepped out onto the porch. He wasn't smoking—he was just standing, staring into the darkness. "You followed me," Sasha said. She appeared from around the corner—without a jacket, in just a t-shirt. "Yes," Max replied. "Why?" "I wanted to know where you go." "And did you find out?" "I did." "And now?" "Nothing. For now." She stood beside him, leaned her shoulder against the railing. "You're not going to ask why?" "Ask—you'll lie." "Maybe not." "Maybe. But I won't take the risk." She paused. "I'm not your enemy," she said. "I know." "How?" "Because if you were, we'd already be dead." She looked at him. In the dark, her face was invisible—only her silhouette. "You're smarter than you look," she said. "I'm just paranoid." "It's the same thing." She went back inside. Max stayed on the porch. "She knows I know," he thought. "Now we're playing openly." He went inside and closed the door. In the kitchen, Emma was washing dishes. She saw him and nodded. "Everything okay?" she asked. "Everything's fine." "You're lying." "Everyone lies." She didn't argue. Max went to his room and lay down on the bed. Fragments spun in his head—the chalk circle, the empty container, the Russian note. And Sasha's gaze. Direct, calm. She wasn't afraid of being exposed. Maybe because she knew they weren't enemies. Maybe because the enemies were worse. "Next contact—standard interval," he repeated to himself. When would the next interval come? In a day? A week? He didn't know. But he knew he would wait. And watch. He closed his eyes. Outside, the wind was blowing. Somewhere in the basement, a hammer was striking—Jack forging iron. Rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat. Or like a countdown.