Fear of Seeing God

Time that has become flat

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Twilight thickened outside the windows as the Prophet dragged himself to Alexei's office, his legs barely obeying after the battle. His fingers trembled with exhaustion as he pushed open the heavy oak door. He'd sent Adelina home earlier - one look at her pale face and shadowed eyes had spoken volumes. Let her rest awhile.

Five minutes into the meeting.

"Fuck!" Alexei slammed his fist onto the desk, making the long-cold coffee cup tremble. His gaze burned with icy fury as it pinned the Prophet. "How the hell do you manage to level two buildings in two days?!"

The Prophet's shoulder twitched nervously, his eyes darting away.

"I didn't wreck them. And you know it."

"Oh really?" Alexei's lips twisted into a sneer. "Guess you don't know leaders are responsible for everything under their command?" He circled the desk like a predator cornering prey. "Two missions - two demolished buildings. Both with your fingerprints all over them!"

"So what?" The Prophet spread his hands as if catching invisible flies. "First time, Niya blew everything to hell! Second time, Fortuna decided to throw a goddamn fireworks show!"

"Don't feed me that bullshit!" Alexei stood abruptly, palms slamming down. "Twice in a row it's not you? Too fucking convenient!"

The Prophet's head snapped up, eyes blazing.

"What was I supposed to do, huh? Stop Niya when I was god-knows-where? Or maybe tackle Fortuna mid-fucking-inferno?"

"How about reporting immediately?" Alexei massaged his temples like squeezing out patience. "Instead of waiting for HQ to call me screaming What fresh hell is this?! nd. "This isn't a circus where we showcase new ruins daily!"

The Prophet tilted his head with mock sympathy.

"Sorry I didn't file a detailed report between 'save your ass' and 'run for your life.' Next time I'll shoot 4K footage so you can review it comfortably."

"Oh, now we've got sarcasm?" Alexei's eyes glinted dangerously. "Know what? Next assignment - archives. Paperwork. No explosions, no oops wasn't me. Sit there sorting files until you learn to appreciate intact buildings."

"Archives?" The Prophet gasped theatrically, hand to chest. "You want me to spontaneously combust from boredom?!"

"If it saves one fucking wall - hell yes!"

"Go fu—"

"Enough!" Alexei exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm too damn old for this kindergarten shit."

The Prophet froze, still tense but less combative.

"Look..." The boss sank into his chair. "I don't think you did it on purpose. But I'm the one writing reports, calculating damages, explaining to superiors. Get it?"

The Prophet nodded silently, jaw clenched.

"Had you reported immediately, we could've prepared. Instead I learn everything post-factum when it's too late."

"You know what..." The Prophet unclenched his fists. "You're right. Should've reported. Just in that moment..."

"You were surviving. I know how that goes." Alexei waved dismissively.

An awkward pause. Then the Prophet snorted:

"But archives? That's overkill."

Alexei huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Fine, damn you. Next mission's routine fieldwork. But if anything collapses there..."

"I'll bury myself in those archives. No jokes."

"Deal."

As the Prophet took the offered documents and turned to leave, he paused at the door:

"Hey Lyokha... sorry for the headache."

"Get out." But the anger was gone.

The door closed. Alexei rubbed his brow, then chuckled despite himself.

"Just like his mother... same damn temper."

---

The Tomb of the Echo

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Stepping out of the office, the Prophet nearly collided with a tall figure clad in black. Nika froze in the doorway like a shadow—her fiery red hair, hastily tied in a messy bun, seemed to blaze even in the dim corridor light. Her scarlet eyes flickered past him, assessing the situation, while the golden dagger-shaped nose ring twitched as she pressed her lips together.

"Damn it, he owes her again... that idiot," flashed through the Prophet's mind. "When did he even have time? I gave him medium shards just yesterday..."

He froze, but Nika sharply arched a brow, her low, raspy voice grating like a blade on glass:

"Move aside, sweetheart."

The Prophet leaned in, catching her chin—his fingers barely brushed her skin, but she didn't even flinch. Dark shades hid her gaze, but he knew: sarcasm smoldered behind them.

"I'll move when the pretty lady explains why she's going in there."

Her lips twitched in a smirk. A hand clad in a black velvet robe, slipped off one shoulder, suddenly darted up—a featherlight touch to his cheek, fingers trailing along his jawline with dangerous tenderness. He stilled, feeling the cold metal of her pendant press against his chest.

"Gonna suck Lyokha off. Now piss off," she snapped, recoiling like a cat forced into unwanted affection.

The Prophet feigned a sigh:

"Alas, I can't allow that."

Then he slammed his palm against the door, yelling:

"Run, Lyokha!!!"

A crash and cursing erupted from inside—Alexei had clearly overturned a chair in his escape attempt.

"You little shit!" Nika lunged, but the Prophet deftly intercepted her, fingers gripping the silk of her blouse and the tension in her muscles. She writhed like a caught serpent, her patent-leather heels nearly cracking his shin.

"Prophet! He owes me my crystals!" Her voice rang with fury laced with thrill.

"He'll pay later! You half-assed debt collector!"

"Let go!" A sharp shove—he hit the floor, and she stormed into the office.

...

Silence. Only the wind rustled the curtains by the open window.

"Ran away..." Nika whispered, disappointment cracking through. She clutched her pendant—an old locket with a cracked glass—as if seeking solace.

Then she whirled around, and even through the dark lenses, her scarlet eyes burned into the Prophet:

"That's it, you little maggot! You're coming with me."

She seized his elbow, nails biting through his sleeve.

"Nika!.. It's late, I wanna go home."

"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" Her laughter screeched like metal. "No-no-no, you're mine all night."

"Come on... Adelina's waiting for me!"

"Shouldn't have meddled with my debt collection!"

"What are we even gonna do?" He froze as her gaze darkened.

Nika slowly turned her head. The air around her thickened like before a storm.

"Guess."

"I... I'm a virgin!" he blurted.

...

"HA-HA-HA-HA!" Nika doubled over, clutching her stomach. "You dumbass!" She straightened, tossing a fiery lock over her shoulder. "Crystals. We—or rather, you—are diving into a worldview tonight."

She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and carelessly blew smoke to the side:

"They just brought two mnemocrystals... from your little hellscape."

"Nik, no smoking here," the Prophet remarked.

Nika said nothing, just stared at him with the most brazen look imaginable.

"But you can smoke a whole hookah in here for all I care," he swiftly amended. "So two crystals came in..."

"Yeah. Hopefully one's Fortuna. She knows too much..." Nika bit her lip, something dark flickering in her eyes.

The Prophet sighed but nodded:

"Fine, let's go. I'm curious to see her worldview myself."

"Yeah... let's." She flicked the cigarette away, crushed it under her heel, and stuffed her hands into her pants pockets, striding toward "DOD".

"Hah, been a while since I've been to Special Investigations," he mused nostalgically.

"Missed it?"

"Well... a little."

Nika didn't answer. Just quickened her pace, her black robe fluttering behind her like a raven's wings.

---

Museum of Disassembled Brains

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Sixteen minutes of walking through the corridor brought them to the right door.

The door creaked open, admitting our heroes inside. The air greeted them with contradictions—sterile yet cool, carrying the warm traces of old leather, ink, and something... metallic.

By the window stood a massive oak desk, its surface scarred by knives and penknife blades. Chaos reigned atop it: two small chests, sketches of victims, test tubes filled with suspiciously dark liquid, a quill plunged into an inkwell like a scalpel in a jar of formaldehyde. Nearby, as if casually placed—a magnifying glass with a hairline crack and surgical clamps pinching a bloodstained envelope.

An Edison lamp cast yellow light over the evidence-covered wall: photographs, maps, and between them—X-ray images pinned up just like the rest of the clues. Whose skull was that? A victim's? Or a hint?

In the corner sat a leather armchair, polished to a shine. Draped over its back was a white coat, hastily discarded. But instead of a standard medical one—coffee stains and... was that blood near the collar?

The work area resembled an operating table, though instead of a patient—spread-out evidence: binoculars with adjustable lenses, a set of surgical tools (one scalpel clearly used for opening letters, not tissue), Petri dishes holding ash and strange fibers.

On the shelf—rows of jars. Some held organs floating in formaldehyde, others... evidence? Here, a heart with a bullet still lodged inside; there, a liver ravaged by cirrhosis; and further—a glass vessel containing a severed finger, labeled Case #247.

The cabinet stood slightly ajar. Inside—old medical textbooks alongside criminal case files, a vial of morphine, and a pistol in sterile packaging, as if fresh from an autoclave.

"Here—these two caskets hold the crystals," Nika said, gesturing to her desk. "One belongs to Fortune, the other to her subordinate." Her expression remained neutral, though a smirk tugged at her lips as she nudged his shoulder. "I'd check myself, but Fortune wouldn't spill everything to me. Not as special as you, after all."

"Got it," the Prophet replied flatly.

He stepped toward the caskets and flipped them open with a casual flick. Inside, "mnemocrystals" pulsed with a faint reddish glow.

For a moment, he just stared. Then—

"One, two, three, four, five," he began, voice lilting.

"Out comes the bunny, alive and alive."

"Then—bang!—the hunter takes his shot—"

"Are you serious?!" Nika cut in.

"What?" He blinked.

"You're seriously picking the crystal with a nursery rhyme?"

"Yeah?"

She stared at him with the kind of look usually reserved for malfunctioning machinery—like her brain was physically straining to process his existence.

"Fine," she groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Do whatever the hell you want." Amusement leaked into her tone despite herself.

"Well then..." He cleared his throat, resurrecting the singsong cadence. "Bang-bang! Oh no, oh dear! Off hops the bunny, far and clear!"

As the last syllable left his lips, he pivoted instantly, deadpan: "Left it is." His fingers moved toward the chosen casket with absolute certainty—

—just as Nika's laughter erupted behind him. Not a chuckle, but a full, silvery cascade, like she'd just witnessed the universe's finest joke.

The Prophet didn't flinch. Didn't pause. His hand kept moving forward with glacial focus, as if her laughter were nothing more than background static.

---

DOD — Detective Operations Department