In a grand conference room in Moscow, a woman entered to deliver a briefing to an assembly of important Russian politicians. Each politician exuded authority and influence, dressed in tailored suits that reflected their positions of power.
One of the prominent figures, Minister Ivanov, known for his critical eye and direct approach, leaned forward with a furrowed brow. Clearly unsatisfied with the report, he asked pointedly, "What really happened?"
Despite the tension in the room, the woman remained composed, her strong character evident in her steady gaze and calm demeanor. She was well-prepared for such scrutiny, anticipating tough questions from these seasoned politicians.
Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she nodded respectfully towards Minister Ivanov. With confidence and clarity, she prepared to narrate the events in greater detail, ready to provide the insights and explanations that were being demanded. Her poise under pressure underscored her capability and determination to convey the truth.
As she started her narration, the overlapping of her voice with that of the blade of the chopper could be heard...
The snow fell in slow, deliberate spirals, blanketing the earth in silence. The chopper's blades shredded the calm with a mechanical fury as it descended into the clearing — a gaping mouth in the middle of the Siberian forest. Below, the remnants of Facility 43-A crouched like a buried memory: frostbitten concrete, rusted steel, and half-swallowed barbed wire. It looked like the forest was trying to forget it ever existed.
Dr. Elena Vostrikov didn't speak as the helicopter landed. She adjusted her gloves, pulled the fur-lined hood tighter over her head, and stepped out into the biting wind. Her boots crunched on the ice-coated ground, but she barely registered the cold. Her thoughts were fixed on the dossier tucked in her coat — and the secrets it refused to reveal.
She had read the official summary three times:
["Soviet psychiatric research outpost. Abandoned in 1987 under unknown circumstances. Recently unearthed due to seismic activity. Contamination risk is minimal. Initial visual inspection suggests an intact structure. Purpose of expedition: psychological hazard assessment."]
Eventually, She didn't believe a word of it.
"Dr. Vostrikov!" Captain Thomas Reznik waved from the edge of the ruins, his breath visible in the frigid air. Military bearing, close-cropped hair, expression flat as a tundra plain. "We've secured the perimeter. Davis's team is already inside."
She nodded and followed him into the yawning black of the entrance tunnel.
The interior was worse than the satellite images had suggested. The structure had been consumed by decades of rot and silence. Paint peeled like molting skin. Doors hung on broken hinges. The corridors curved slightly, not by design, but by time's slow pressure. The walls were covered in mold, mildew, and something else she couldn't identify. Almost like... scratch marks.
"Your team's assembling in the main atrium," Reznik said, shining his flashlight ahead. The beam flicked across Soviet propaganda posters hanging limp on the walls.
/ "Trust the Mind. Fear the Enemy Within."/
They passed through rusted blast doors into the central hall. Faded murals of brains and neurons spread across the ceiling like some demented Sistine Chapel. Four other figures stood beneath them.
Elena greeted Sarah Adler, her translator, who looked pale and jittery, clutching a leather-bound notebook. Dr. Marcus Karpov, older, bespectacled, with a face like carved ice, gave her a curt nod. He had once worked for the Ministry of Internal Affairs... or so he claimed. Jacob Davis, the geologist, offered a tired smile and extended a gloved hand. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and nervous sweat.
The fifth person was a body.
Davis gestured toward the far wall where a stretcher had been laid out hastily. "We found him inside a locked patient room. The door was sealed from the outside."
Elena stepped closer, frowning. The corpse was mummified by the cold, face frozen in a silent scream. His fingers were bloody stumps, he'd tried to claw his way out.
"No ID," Adler said softly. "But there's something else. We found this under his cot."
She handed Elena a small, cloth-bound journal. The cover was unmarked. Inside, the pages were covered in tiny, cramped handwriting, in Russian, German, and a third script that looked almost mathematical.
Elena skimmed a passage:
/"They say Room 313 doesn't exist. But I remember it. I remember what it took from me. What it left behind. The Mirror sees. The Mirror listens. The Mirror learns."/
She looked up.
"Is this in the blueprints?" she asked.
Reznik shook his head. "No such room listed. The highest number is 312."
Elena stared down the dim corridor beyond the atrium. The air was heavy with cold and something else, the sense of being watched, even here, among the living. Her breath clouded before her, a whisper against the void.
The Mirror sees.
She knew, with a certainty she could not explain, that Room 313 was real. And if it had stayed hidden this long, it hadn't wanted to be found.
Not until now.