Reality
---
The Prophet gasped as he returned to the real world, clutching his head in blinding pain.
"What happened?!" Nika was at his side in an instant, voice trembling.
"Fine, Nik," he muttered through gritted teeth, still pressing his temples. "Just a headache."
He straightened slowly, the pain ebbing but leaving behind retinal flares—afterimages of Fortune's crumbling casino.
"You sure?" Nika's lips were pressed into a tight line.
"Yeah..."
Satisfied, she switched gears.
"What did you learn?"
"Kalinina Street, thirty-four," he forced out. "Theater address she gave."
"A theater, huh?" Nika smirked. "Just our luck. Anything else?"
"Yeah." He hesitated. "Their leader's alias is The Communist."
"Meaning?" Her eyebrow arched.
"How should I know? Records are wiped... as you're well aware." His tone was clinical.
"Right. Omnimnesia."
"Thought it was called The Great Forgetting?" A challenge laced his words.
"Omnimnesia is the scientific term. Great Forgetting's what the masses call it. Don't be dense, Prophet."
"Hm. Thanks for the intel, Nik." He flashed a tired grin.
"Don't mention—" She froze mid-sentence, lips twitching as a horrifying realization dawned. "Wait. That means he... remembers the world before." Her voice fractured between icy dread and feverish curiosity.
"Hah. Still a damn fine detective."
"We have to catch him, Prophet!" Her eyes burned with gambler's zeal. "God, I've only read about people like him in theory. Never thought they actually—"
"We'll bag him, Nik." He squeezed her shoulder, dead certain.
His hand dropped as he checked his watch—8 PM sharp. Time bled away like sand.
"Alright, gorgeous. Gotta run—handle the second crystal yourself." He didn't look up, every second suddenly precious.
"Mm. Fine." Nika crossed her arms. "Consider Lyokha's debt paid. You're clear."
Without another word, the Prophet pivoted toward the exit. His jacket flared behind him like a wave as his strides ate the distance, precise as a metronome. His fingers brushed the doorknob, lingered—maybe waiting for a parting shot, maybe just testing his sword harness. Then the door slammed shut behind him, leaving only the whisper of evening wind and the ticking of an old wall clock.
Exhausted but satisfied, the Prophet wandered the empty hallway, savoring the quiet. His thoughts drifted from today's chaos to tomorrow's respite.
Adelina'll want something sweet… liqueur? Wine? He mentally catalogued options. Tomorrow meant downtime—no missions, just her.
A distant door creaked, but the corridor stayed deserted. He slowed, breathing in the cool air, eyes shutting briefly. Tomorrow'll be good.
For now: silence, peace, and anticipation.
Pushing through the exit, he was greeted by the evening's chill. Pausing on the steps, he fished out a crumpled cigarette pack and a battered metal lighter. Faint letters survived the scratches—Zi…—the rest long gone. His thumb traced the worn grooves before the flame erupted, carving sharp shadows across his cheekbones.
The street was near-empty, just distant streetlamps and laughter bleeding from a bar's open window. He headed toward a liquor store, debating: red wine? Champagne? Something stronger if Adelina was in the mood.
His cigarette was almost done when he rounded the corner and spotted the familiar sign—*28/6*. "And here's where the evening's fate gets decided," he mused, stubbing it out before pushing inside.
Pulling out his phone, he scrolled to Adelina and hit call. Two rings, then her voice—sleepy-rough, like she'd just woken up or already started drinking.
"Yeah, Prophet?" He could picture her sprawled on the couch, hugging a pillow.
"Critical logistics question," he said, propping the door open with his shoulder. "Wine, champagne, or something we'll regret tomorrow?"
Her laugh was pure Adelina—reckless and bright. "Something sweet… and strong. So we definitely forget tomorrow's our day off."
"Liqueur it is," he nodded at no one. "Ice?"
"Ice," she confirmed. "And… chips. Salty ones. For regret mitigation."
The Prophet smirked, already tasting the night ahead.
"Deal. Twenty minutes."
She muttered don't dawdle and hung up. Tucking the phone away, he beelined for the liquor aisle, mission parameters clear.
---
Returning home
---
Twenty-one minutes later, the key clicked in the lock, and the apartment door swung open. The Prophet stepped inside, clutching a bag with cherry liqueur, ice, and two packs of crab-flavored chips—her favorite.
The apartment greeted him with dim light and the soft murmur of jazz from the speakers. Adelina sat on the windowsill, swallowed by an oversized sweater, only her fingertips and bare feet peeking out. An almost-empty glass of something amber dangled from her hand.
"You're late," she said without turning, but he knew she was smiling.
"By a minute," he muttered, setting the bag down. "Line at the register."
"Liar." She finally turned, and the glint in her eyes—the one that always made him agree to her wildest ideas—was already there. "You just walked slow."
He didn't argue. Unpacked the bottle, the ice, fished out two glasses from the cupboard.
"Started without me?" He nodded at her glass.
"A little." She slid off the sill and stepped closer. "Had to decide if you were worth letting in."
"It's my apartment..."
"And?" Her fingers trailed the bottle's label before suddenly hooking his belt. "Think I can't kick you out of your own place?" A smirk played on her lips.
The Prophet brushed an imaginary speck off her forehead with a flick.
"Nope," he said, watching her eyebrows shoot up. "You can't."
She froze, hand covering the spot he'd touched—somewhere between offended and stifling a laugh.
"You—" Her voice wavered oddly.
"Me," he confirmed, snagging her glass. The ice had nearly melted, turning the liqueur into a murky syrup.
Adelina suddenly snorted, nose scrunching—and just like that, the tension shattered.
"Boring," she exhaled, but her fingers were already tearing into the chips with exaggerated fury. "Most boring man alive."
The Prophet poured her a fresh glass, deliberately letting it overflow. A sticky drop landed on her knee.
"But predictable," he said, catching a flying chip in his mouth.
Outside, a car honked. They exchanged a glance.
Ice clinked as he poured. Another car passed, headlights briefly illuminating her face—laughing, alive, the only thing that mattered tonight.
Tomorrow would bring a hangover. But now—just this.
A few glasses later, the conversation meandered to the past, their friends, and the twisted logic of their world.
"Remember that mission after the all-nighter with the sketchy shawarma?" Adelina paused to sip. "You spent it puking while Niya went full berserker."
"Hah! They demolished the bathroom too. Had to piss under her admiring gaze."
They both burst out laughing.
"At least you didn't flake today," she snorted, draining her glass.
"We drink less now..." He pushed his glass away pointedly. "See each other less, too. Used to be every weekend like a holiday. Now? Someone's always on assignment—"
"Mhm. We were closer back then," she sighed, twisting the glass in her hands. "Now they send us all over—Moscow, Leningrad, Sverdlovsk, Simbirsk, even fucking Yekaterinodar..."
"Yeah..." Silence hung thicker than the alcohol haze.
"But I think we'll see each other more now," Adelina said suddenly, her smile warm and real. Something vulnerable flickered in her usually steel-hard eyes.
He raised a brow, leaning back. The lamp cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones, the deep crease between his brows.
"Why's that?"
"Lera." One word, brimming with certainty. "We all want more time with her..." She glanced at the window, where evening snow drifted past. "She's... wonderful. So I'm refusing long-distance jobs now. Niya and Nellie will too."
He traced the rim of his glass, leaving a smudged streak.
"Huh. A regular kid reuniting us..." His mouth twisted wryly, but his eyes held only weary understanding.
"Of course! She's amazing!" Adelina's laugh shattered the quiet like a stone through glass. "She's... like a tiny Niya..." Her voice cracked. A tear glimmered in the lamplight before she hurriedly wiped it away. "Sorry—"
The Prophet stood, his shadow swallowing her for a moment. His hands—calloused from endless fights—wrapped around her gently, as if she might break.
"It's okay now... They're dead... I killed them..." His whisper barely carried, each word dropping like a stone into a well.
"I know. Thank you."
"I'll save you all this time." His fingers tightened slightly on her shoulders. "Anyone who hurts you—I'll slaughter them."
"Even God?" She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, lips quirking.
"Even God."
"Dummy... He's stronger than you." Her fingers threaded through his hair, stroking gently, like soothing a wild animal.
"Doesn't matter. I'd burn the world for you three."
"Four," she corrected, booping his nose. "You forgot Lera."
"Right. Four."
Several glasses later, the conversation darkened like the dregs of their smoky, spiced liqueur.
"Prophet?"
"Hm?" He cracked one eye open, slouched in his chair.
"Isn't it fucked up? Our crystals being currency?" Adelina's fingers plucked at the blanket's edge. "We buy things with pieces of someone's soul..." Her smile held no joy—just icy, mad irony.
"Yeah..." He stared at the ceiling where firelight danced. "This world's insane. Genomes, Minors, crystals in ribs... global amnesia." A hoarse laugh. "Wonder if people before lived in this kinda madness."
"Dunno. Madness is... flexible." She sipped, her voice dry as autumn leaves.
"Hm. You're right. Hey, got plans tomorrow?"
"Yeah." She leaned back, something peaceful flashing in her eyes. "Taking Lera and Niya to the waterpark." Her finger circled the glass. "Only calm place left..."
Wind howled outside, an echo of their thoughts.
"Expensive, though..." He smirked. "Not that you care."
Adelina rolled her eyes.
"You?" She fiddled with the tablecloth.
"Visiting my dad," he said, quiet sadness seeping in.
"The hospital, then."
"Yeah..."
"He's a good man..." She watched the flickering bulb.
"Yeah. Shame—"
A sudden yawn cut him off. Adelina covered her mouth, eyes glazing with sleep.
"Tired?" He raised a brow.
"Mhm." She swayed slightly like a drowsy child.
"C'mon, bedtime." He pushed back his chair with a scrape, but as he turned to leave, Adelina stretched out her arms, pouting exaggeratedly. "Christ, like a damn kid..."
"Prophettt..." She batted her lashes, lips puckered.
He couldn't help grinning. Turning back, he scooped her up effortlessly.
"Ha! I'm taller!" She pushed off his shoulders, giggling.
"You're already taller by ten centimeters!"
"Oh right! Ha!" Her laughter rang out, head thrown back.
A minute later, they reached the bedroom.
"We're here."
He lowered her onto the bed, fluffed the pillow, and tucked the blanket snugly around her.
"Thanks, Prophet."
"Anytime."
He lingered a second—just to be sure—then killed the light and shut the door softly behind him. The long, brutal day was finally over.