The following morning greeted the city with a suffocating, paranoid atmosphere. Outdoor advertising across the streets had been completely shut down—the government preferred leaving the massive digital billboards pitch black rather than risking the League's slogan appearing on them again. Reinforced riot police patrols in full combat gear stood guard at every major intersection.
Alexey Petrovich watched from his window as officers pulled random pedestrians aside, demanding they unlock their smartphones. The authorities were trying to purge the internet; state-controlled providers had blocked the largest social networks and search engines, but it was futile. Local networks were buzzing. People were sharing the broadcast recording via encrypted messaging apps and local Bluetooth connections. A rumor was circulating that the Ministry of Communications had been subjected to emergency raids all through the night—the regime was desperately trying to comprehend how a "foreigner" could intercept the heavily guarded signal of state television.
They are terrified, Alexey thought with grim satisfaction, watching the frantic movement of the security forces in the courtyard below. For the first time in twenty years, they do not control the situation.
Inside the apartment, the atmosphere was no less tense. Alexey paced the living room floor, his eyes darting back and forth to the wall calendar. The first day out of the ten was already bleeding away.
"We need his photograph, Elena," he said quietly. "If this Gabrillend is telling the truth... if this can work for Anton, I will burn that scrap of paper with my own hands. But where do we find one? I don't want to download it from the network; they are tracking everyone by IP address for that right now."
Alexey fell into deep thought. It was true—in recent years, the regime had mandated hanging portraits of the "Leader" in all government buildings, schools, and offices, but citizens took care not to keep the tyrant's face inside their homes.
Wait... an idea suddenly struck Alexey.
He walked into the hallway and pulled down an old box of documents and archives of department newspapers from the top shelf. On his knees, carefully turning the yellowed pages from three years ago, he finally found what he was looking for. Spanned across the centerfold of a celebratory jubilee issue was a high-quality, official parade portrait of the president.
Elena drew closer, holding her breath. Alexey took a pair of scissors and carefully, making sure not to make a sound, cut out the rectangle containing the face of the man in the dark suit.
Nothing but paper and ink, Alexey thought, staring into the cold eyes of the dictator on the photo. But in nine days, it will become a lightning rod for our collective fury.
He hid the clipping deep between the pages of an old encyclopedia on the shelf.
At that exact moment across the city, inside Detention Center No. 1, Anton sat on the hard bunk of a solitary confinement cell. The windows here were covered by "eyelashes"—heavy steel shutters that blocked all natural sunlight. He had lost track of days and knew only one thing: they wanted him to betray his friends.
The latch of the heavy iron door groaned loudly. Sergeant Kovalev appeared on the threshold—one of the few guards who never raised a hand against the prisoners and occasionally smuggled an extra piece of bread to Anton. Kovalev walked in, pretending to inspect the window grates, but his movements were uncharacteristically twitchy.
"Listen to me very carefully and don't interrupt," the guard whispered so softly it was barely audible, keeping his back turned toward Anton. "Last night, someone hacked every single channel. They ran an ultimatum right on the TV. Some guy called himself the League of Justice. Told the Chief to clear out within ten days, otherwise... basically, if he doesn't resign, everyone is supposed to burn his photo at midnight on the tenth day."
Anton snapped his head up, his exhausted eyes flashing with life. "Hacked the state channels? That's impossible, they use military-grade encryption..."
"I saw it myself, kid! In the guardroom, everyone's jaws just hit the floor. The bosses are losing their minds right now; they declared a 'Fortress' lockdown protocol, we aren't even allowed off our shift," Kovalev turned around, a wild mix of primal fear and hope etched across his face. "That damn hacker... his eyes, Anton... I can't sleep. He said, 'Your time is up.' Hold on. The whole city is talking about nothing else. There are nine days left."
The door slammed shut, plunging Anton back into the darkness. But now, that darkness no longer felt eternal.
At first, this incident did not cause considerable concern among the government officials and ministers. A report from the Ministry of State Security claimed that some crazy clown, with the help of a hacker group, had managed to penetrate the security system of the state television network. The document stated that the culprit would soon be found and interrogated, adding that witchcraft and other "magical rites" could not cause any harm to the State.
However, in the following days, no information about the person who had spoken on television—demanding the resignation of the government and making threats against the leader of the country—could be found. Not a single surveillance camera recorded his face. Intelligence agencies concluded that he had operated from abroad. Websites hosting video recordings or text transcriptions of this message appeared online and were immediately blocked, and all domestic media were strictly forbidden from even mentioning or commenting on the event.
Alexey Petrovich wasted no time. He collected and arranged into separate envelopes photographs from various angles of all members of the government and, of course, the President. However, there was no high-quality, clear photo available of the Minister of State Security—only a blurry image cropped from an old newsreel frame. No photograph of him existed on government websites, in newspapers, or in magazines.
As if he knew something about this beforehand and deliberately avoided the camera lenses, Alexey Petrovich thought.
The colossal digital billboards in the city centers were stripped down to their steel frames. The government feared the League would hijack them to project a synchronized target image at midnight.
Meanwhile, in the capital and other cities, graffiti began appearing on fences and building walls: "YOUR TIME IS UP." Naturally, these inscriptions were promptly painted over by city workers, but the words appeared over and over again. The police went so far as to detain individuals who just happened to be near the anti-government slogans, because officers received large cash bonuses for every arrested and convicted "state criminal."
A new nobility of power had long been flourishing in the country, fencing themselves off from the public behind five-meter stone walls around lavish estates and palaces. Their children became wealthy loafers and millionaires virtually the moment they were born. In the central urban area of the capital—where the government buildings, the ministries, and the palace residence of President Konstantin were located—ordinary citizens were strictly forbidden from entering without a specific permit.
All representatives of the security forces and official structures possessed absolute judicial immunity; they could only be held accountable after the decision of a special commission. Furthermore, they and their relatives were protected not only by riot police shields but also by countless laws invented and adopted in a parliament under the absolute control of the president and his inner circle. In truth, no one actually elected the parliamentary deputies; they were simply appointed by the Electoral Committee under the leadership of the President's close friends after a fake election.
A few years ago, a zealous deputy had come up with a legislative bill. According to it, everyone would be legally required to bow deeply to President Konstantin whenever they crossed paths as a sign of respect, greeting, and wishes of health and well-being. At the time, the bill fell just a few votes short of passing, and it was put on the shelf.
However, they did adopt another law that forbade anyone from sitting in the presence of the president if he was standing. Violation carried either a crippling fine or a two-year prison sentence. Later, the president issued a special decree graciously allowing members of the government to sit in his presence. The legislative act granting lifelong security guarantees and full legal immunity to the President and his relatives was adopted unanimously.
The day after the incident on television, the deputies rushed through an edit to the law on insulting the authorities. Now, for any desecration, defilement, or malicious damage to state symbols and portraits of government representatives, the punishment was hiked to twenty years in prison instead of ten.
Despite this, demonstrations and spontaneous protests against economic inequality and political repression began sweeping across the entire Republic.
By the fifth day, the city had turned into an open-air prison. The regime, paralyzed by the approaching deadline, had completely discarded any pretense of legality. Martial law had not been officially declared, but everyone knew the rules had changed. The internet was totally dead—the government had cut the regional fiber-optic cables, plunging the population into an information vacuum.
Preventive arrests began at dawn. Anyone who had ever been flagged at a rally, anyone who sub-let an apartment to students, or anyone who simply looked too long at the blacked-out digital billboards was hauled away in unmarked vans. The detention centers were overflowing.
Alexey Petrovich sat in his kitchen, the old encyclopedia containing the hidden photographs resting on his knees. They are digging their own graves, he thought, his thumb tracing the worn leather spine of the book. The more they squeeze, the more drops join the torrent.
A sudden, heavy pounding on the front door shattered the silence of the apartment. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor. It was a rhythmic, metal-on-wood assault that made the doorframe groan.
Elena gasped, her coffee mug slipping from her hands and shattering on the linoleum. Alexey froze, his heart leaping into his throat. He calmly slid the encyclopedia back onto the shelf, squeezed his right hand into a fist—feeling that stubborn, residual hum beneath his skin—and walked to the hallway.
He opened the door.
Standing on the threshold was Investigator Voronov. He wasn't wearing his usual cheap suit; he was in a heavy black tactical jacket, flanked by two masked riot police officers carrying automatic rifles. Voronov looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot and his face gray with stress.
"Alexey Petrovich," Voronov said, stepping inside without an invitation. The two armed guards took positions by the door, their weapons held at low-ready. "We don't have time for the usual formalities today."
"Investigator," Alexey said, keeping his voice flat and dead. "I believe I've answered all your questions regarding my grandson."
"The situation has changed," Voronov snapped, walking into the living room and scanning the corners as if looking for hidden cameras. He stopped, sniffing the air, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What is that smell? It smells like a power substation in here. Ozone."
He can smell it, Alexey thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. The energy is still leaking from me.
"It's an old apartment, the wiring is failing," Alexey lied smoothly. "What do you want, captain?"
Voronov turned around, leaning in close. The casual arrogance he usually displayed at the prosecutor's office was gone, replaced by a desperate, volatile edge. "Your grandson's friends—the ones from the institute. We know they are connected to the cyber-terrorists who hijacked the TV networks. This 'League' nonsense. We know it's a coordinated psychological operation."
He stepped closer, tapping his finger heavily against Alexey's chest. "You are an ex- attorney. You know how this machinery works. In exactly five days, at midnight, the state is going to lock down every square inch of this city. Anyone found with a photograph of the President outside of an official frame will be shot under treason protocols. No trial. No colony."
Voronov's voice dropped to a harsh, jagged whisper. "Sign this confession for Anton. Admit he was groomed by foreign agents. Give us the names of his university circle. Do it now, and I will personally transfer him to a safe house outside the city before midnight on the tenth day. If you don't..." Voronov looked at the wall calendar, then back at Alexey. "If you don't, I will drag you and your wife into the cells right now as accomplices to terrorism. And when the clock strikes twelve, no one will be left to save your grandson."
Elena stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching her hands to her chest, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at her husband.
Alexey looked at Voronov. For a split second, his survival instinct tempted him to comply. But then, he remembered the bottomless, light-absorbing eyes of Gabrillend on the television screen. He remembered the feeling of absolute equilibrium that had flooded his bones.
They aren't arresting people because they are strong, Alexey realized, a profound, quiet certainty washing away his panic. They are arresting people because they are already dead. They are trying to cage a storm.
"I have nothing to sign, Investigator," Alexey said softly, staring directly into Voronov's bloodshot eyes. "And my grandson has nothing to confess."
While the rest of the cabinet dismissed the League's broadcast as a mere hacker stunt, Minister of State Security General Walter was sweating through his uniform. He had spent his entire life studying the hidden architecture of power, and he knew that Gabrillend's message wasn't poetry—it was a literal weapon system. More importantly, he knew how the weapon was aimed.
Walter stood in the deepest, most secure vault of the Central State Archive, thirty meters beneath the capital. The air was crisp, smelling of old paper, vinegar from decaying film reels, and the metallic tang of heavy server stacks.
"Is this the absolute last copy?" Walter's voice was a harsh, ragged whisper.
Across the steel table, the chief archivist, a frail man whose hands shook with terror, nodded rapidly. " Yes, Mr. Minister. This is the unedited master negative of the 2021 Victory Day parade newsreel. We have already purged all digital servers, backups, regional archives, and even private collections. This physical film contains the only remaining image of your face in existence."
Walter looked down at the plastic canister. Over the last five years, he had systematically wiped his likeness from the world. He had forced painters to use silhouettes, ordered state media to blur his presence, and executed photographers who snapped a rogue frame. He had always known that in their line of work, an image was a vulnerability—a link. But now, it was a literal death sentence.
If they cannot burn my face, they cannot burn me, Walter thought, a frantic, desperate hope flaring in his chest. The link must be severed completely.
"Destroy it," Walter ordered, stepping back. "Incinereate the negative. Now. In front of me."
The archivist hurriedly opened a chemical canister, pulling out the fragile strip of celluloid film. With trembling hands, he struck a match and brought it to the edge. The highly flammable nitrate film ignited instantly, flaring with a bright, violent hiss.
Walter watched the fire devour the image. On the burning frame, his own youthful face—standing just two steps behind President Konstantin—bubbled, blackened, and turned to ash.
It's gone, Walter thought, letting out a long, shuddering breath as the tension in his shoulders finally released. I am invisible. I am safe.
But as the final scrap of celluloid turned to dust, a cold, unnatural static suddenly filled the air of the vault.
It didn't come from the ventilation or the machinery. It was a low-frequency hum that vibrated directly inside Walter's skull—the exact high-voltage frequency from the television broadcast.
The lights in the vault didn't flicker; they turned a blinding, stark, incandescent white, erasing all shadows. Walter gasped, stumbling backward against the steel shelves. He reached into his pocket to draw his service pistol, but his hand froze.
The ash on the table—the remains of the burnt newsreel—wasn't lying still.
Driven by an invisible, magnetic current, the black flakes of ash began to float into the air, swirling in a mathematically perfect circle. They gathered together, defying gravity, and crystallized into a sharp, flawless, black text suspended right in front of the General's face:
YOUR TIME IS UP.
Walter stared at the floating ash, his blood turning to ice.
They didn't need a fresh photo, the terrifying realization hit him like a physical blow. They just needed someone, anyone, to hold the intent. The connection was already made.
The text of ash collapsed, scattering onto the floor like ordinary dirt, and the vault plunged back into its regular dim lighting. But the metallic smell of ozone remained, and the countdown in Walter's bones had officially begun.