Silence pushed him out of sleep.
Not a scream, not light, not even pain - silence. It stood in the room, heavy as water in a flooded shaft, filling his lungs with every breath.
His heart stayed quiet. He sat on the bed, motionless, until the digits flickered on the clock screen. 55... 56.
London outside was dead: no tires, no wind, not even a tremble from the bridge lights.Everything off. As if the city itself was waiting - for him to rise. Or not rise at all.
He stood. His feet touched the floor - cold as the underside of a hospital gurney.
On the table, alone in the empty kitchen: Briefing Pack №12/7-C.
He'd signed it himself - mechanically, the way ministers do when every minute is booked.But now the cover no longer felt like paper. It was warm. Breathing. As if the document - was alive.
The screen lit up. Then again. A third time.
Updates. Like nails driven into wood:
Vysheslav-7 - seam's crawling. Thirty-eight underneath.
Radomir-15 - wedge collapsed. One dead.
Heat loss - 11,247 homes. Three hours, forty-six minutes.
All three - his. Full stop.
Just like back then. He'd approved accelerated degassing - the mine had taken nineteen. The lift went down empty. Came back with only smoke.
He could still smell it now - leaking from the packet.
The tablet lit at his touch. He opened the registry. No hesitation.
Override. Halt extraction. Evacuate. Revoke signature Vysheslav-7.
The system asked for a live signature. Screen blinked:
00:46:21...
He reached for the pen - but couldn't.
His joints had fused with YES.
He exhaled. And wrote:
NO.
The bulb overhead shattered - like glass bone.
Outside, a transformer shrieked.
The phone hissed:
- Reverse the signature. You've killed the grid. They'll jail you
- If the grid runs on corpses, let it die - He cut the call.
The packet on the table bulged. The seal tore open.
A book slid out - no title, no author. Just a number: his directive.
White. Too white. Breathing.
Something shifted beneath the cover.
He touched it - and burned.
The paper was hot.
The pages opened on their own. No words. Just a line - heartbeat. 93. 94. 96.
His signature ink surfaced, rose into his skin.
The paper drank. His fingers blistered.
He yanked his hand - and one sheet tore away with flesh.
Pain bloomed.
The book exhaled. Not with sound. With absence.
And released him.
He heard a heartbeat - not his. It beat beside him.
The name detached.
He called it - nothing answered.
The name no longer replied.
The screen blinked:
00:44:49
00:44:48
System entering autosign mode.
He raised the phone.
- Shaft Thirty-One. Everyone - up. Compensation's on me
- Sir, that's criminal...
- Write it down
The phone pulsed.
He waited for confirmation.
Got the bill instead.
Evac confirmed. Survivors: 34 out of 38.
The rest - under signature. His.
The book curled.
Its last page hung in the air like a petal.
He wasn't holding it. It - was holding him.
His heart struck once - and something cracked in his skull.
Not bone. Name.
He closed his eyes.
Didn't fall.
Crossed.
00:44:47
Signed: SYSTEM.
The book remained.
Open. Breathing.
Waiting for the next signature.