u/Yiikki

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The metal basement door gave way with a heavy, rusted shriek. Beyond it, the darkness didn't just feel empty - it felt dense, pressing against the wide visor of my PMK-4 mask like a physical wall of freezing oil.

The beam of my hand flashlight was instantly swallowed by the absolute shadow. The biomass analyzer inside my tactical vest gave a sharp, high-pitched click, updating the countdown log on my HUD: 98 hours, 42 minutes remaining. The "Fat One" was close. We could hear its massive, distorted carcass shifting somewhere behind the concrete pillars, its newly stolen mass grinding against the foundation of the five-story building.

"Set up the perimeter guards. Now," my partner hissed through the radio, his voice flat, completely stripped of any human emotion.

We dropped our assault gear onto the damp, concrete floor. I dragged the heavy "Helios" quartz projector forward, its steel handle cold against my iron grip. My fingers, tight from days of gripping the steel hand spring, locked the heavy tripod legs into the floor. One, two, three - the locks clicked. We flipped the heavy breakers on the mobile generator box.

With a low, mechanical hum, the heavy UV lenses warmed up, instantly launching a blinding, sharp violet firewall across the basement corridor. The directed ultraviolet light cut through the dark, carving out a strict, five-meter zone of absolute safety. Shadows could not breach this light without their molecular structure collapsing into zero frames.

"We have a signal," my partner muttered, racking the bolt on his incendiary rifle. "Thermal logs show a massive heat retention index behind the central boiler room. It's the civilian shelter."

We moved behind the violet beams of the projectors, keeping our bodies close to the load-bearing concrete walls. In the furthest corner of the utility room, huddled under a ruptured steam pipe, we found him. A local housing utility worker. He was alive, but his system was throwing a total System Error of panic. His eyes were wide, completely dilated, staring into the dark corridors where eleven of his coworkers had just been consumed.

"Get up," I growled, grabbing his heavy, shivering shoulder. "We are pulling your mass out of the hot zone. Move."

He didn't speak. His input lag was total. He was a fat, heavy man, his breath coming in jagged, wheezing gasps that smelled of stale tobacco and ozone. I quickly slammed a tactical sealing patch onto a deep laceration on his forearm, completely ignoring the blood. In the Unit, pain doesn't block the task - you patch the hardware leak and keep moving.

We dragged him toward the safety of the Helios projectors. But the moment his heavy boots stepped inside the violet firewall, the basement grid gave a violent, terminal shudder.

The "Fat One" didn't fight our light head-on - it was siphoning the building's central power lines, forcing an artificial power surge straight into our generator!

Screeech -

The mobile generator box emitted a shower of white-hot sparks and died. The violet lenses of the projectors flickered once, twice, and went completely dark. The safety firewall was gone. The basement plunged into a total, freezing deep blind.

"Status!" my partner yelled, but his voice was instantly cut off by a massive electromagnetic static flare over the comms.

We froze, backed up against a solid concrete column. My vision was at absolute zero, but my ears became a radar. Through the freezing white noise of the basement, I heard it. A heavy, sated, rhythmic grinding of stone on stone just three meters ahead of us. The monster was in the room.

And then, the final glitch happened.

The fat utility worker next to me stopped shivering. His breathing went totally flat. Without a single word, without any logical reason or panic, his body suddenly moved. Like a programmed script executing in the dark, he stepped away from our defensive concrete wall and began walking straight into the open corridor - right toward the sound of the grinding flesh.

"Stop!" I reached out in the dark, but my fingers only caught the empty air.

He was walking into the dark without a cause, completely void of will, leaving our perimeter to meet the shadow face-to-face.

A wet, concrete-crushing thud echoed through the room.

​

The polar night in Novgorod-17 weighed down on the city with a heavy, frosty darkness. The outside thermometer on the armored car's dashboard showed minus thirty-two degrees Celsius. The interior smelled of ozone, gun oil, and cheap instant coffee from a thermos.

I sat in the passenger seat, slowly clenching and unclenching the steel expander in my jacket pocket. The forty-five kilograms of stiff spring yielded obediently to my fingers-one, two, three. It was calming. Inside the body armor, beneath the thick assault fabric of my gear, my heart pounded at its usual frantic tachycardia. The doctor at the Transneft clinic said it was due to a sudden growth spurt, but there was no time to argue with my pulse at the Capture Service. If you can't control your motor, you'll be eaten.

The radio crackled on the dashboard, cutting through the thick layer of white noise. The coordinator's voice from Rosneft's central headquarters was dry:

"Post number three, attention. Sector four, five-story building on the Embankment, building fourteen. A Space Rift has been detected inside the basement. I repeat, the spawn point is in complete shadow."

I instantly stopped clutching the steel. Everything inside me tightened. A Rift in the basement is the worst thing that could happen. If a purple crack opens on the open street, the sun and daylight compress the creatures' lifespan to a couple of minutes. But in a dark basement, where the rays never penetrate, the Space Rift becomes eternal. It will exist there until the Service burns it to the ground, endlessly spawning Spirits.

"What about the Saturation Phase?" my partner asked sullenly, slamming into gear and yanking the heavy armored vehicle forward.

The coordinator's heavy sigh echoed over the radio:

"It's bad. A civilian shelter was set up in the basement. The local housing office didn't check the locks. Pure Spirits of the Rift entered through the ventilation. Eleven absorptions have been recorded so far. The creature has gained mass. The object has entered "Fat" status. The automatic biomass analyzer has initiated the maximum form retention timer. You have exactly ninety-nine hours until complete biological decomposition."

"Bitch," the partner cursed quietly, gripping the steering wheel. "A hundred-hour tank in a residential building."

When a pure Spirit emerges from the Rift, it appears as a pitch-black shadow of a man, carved from the very void of night itself. It has no weight, no flesh, and can't be stopped by a bullet. But when this incorporeal silhouette finds a human, it devours their life in seconds and takes away their physical mass. The creature becomes tangible. Bones break, muscles grow, and a heavy, meaty killing machine is born. Eleven people gave this bastard enough energy to survive for almost four days. And it no longer needed the Rift to live.

Five minutes later, the armored car screeched to a halt in the courtyard of a five-story building. The regular streetlights around the building had already gone out-the "Fat" Rift Spirit was actively absorbing energy from the power grid. A terrible, sated rumble and the heavy grinding of crushed concrete emanated from the open black basement windows. The monster grew, driving its new carcass into the building's foundation.

We jumped out of the car. I was wearing full assault gear. The kilogram-sized ballistic helmet pressed on my head, but the panoramic visor of the new PMK-4 mask provided a perfect, distortion-free view. I grabbed the heavy Helios quartz searchlight-our main weapon.

"The tactics are simple," my partner checked the bolt of the incendiary assault rifle. "We're not fighting this mountain of meat head-on in the dark. Our target is the source. We break into the basement, find the purple crack, and flood it with focused ultraviolet light. We'll cut off the connection to the Dimensional Rift-the Fat One will lose stability, and its hundred-hour counter will reset to zero in seconds. Ready?"

I took a deep breath, forcing my heart to beat more steadily. My fingers, clad in tactical gloves, gripped the handle of the searchlight with an iron grip.

"Ready. Let's go."

Part2

We rushed toward the heavy metal basement door, beyond which a hundred-hour of eternal darkness awaited us.

The metal basement door gave way with a heavy, rusty creak. Beyond, the darkness didn't seem empty-it pressed against the panoramic visor of the PMK-4 mask like a wall of frozen oil.

The beam of my flashlight instantly drowned in absolute shadow. The biomass analyzer inside my tactical vest clicked, updating the timer on the HUD: 98 hours, 42 minutes. "Fatty" was nearby. We heard his massive, distorted body roll behind the concrete columns, pressing his stolen flesh into the foundation of the five-story building.

"Set up perimeter floodlights. Now," my partner hissed over the radio, his voice flat and emotionless.

We dropped our assault gear onto the damp concrete floor. I pulled out the heavy quartz Helios floodlight, its steel handle cold in my palm. Fingers accustomed to the steel expander snapped the tripod's legs into place. One, two, three-the locks locked. We flipped the switches on the mobile generator.

With a low mechanical hum, the heavy UV lenses heated up, instantly carving a blinding violet wall into the corridor. The focused ultraviolet light cut through the darkness, creating a five-meter zone of absolute safety. Shadows couldn't cross this wall-their molecular structure collapsed to zero frames.

"We have a signal," my partner pulled the trigger of the incendiary machine gun. "Thermology shows a massive heat spot behind the central boiler room. This is the shelter."

We followed the violet rays, hugging the concrete walls. In the far corner of the utility room, under a broken steam pipe, we found him. The local housing office worker. He was alive, but his system was malfunctioning in a complete panic. His eyes were wide, his pupils dark, staring into the corridor where eleven of his colleagues had just been devoured.

"Get up," I growled, grabbing his shaking shoulder. "Let's get your carcass out of the hot zone. Come on."

He didn't speak. His input signal froze. He was a fat, heavy man, his breathing ragged and raspy, smelling of tobacco and ozone. I quickly applied a tactical patch to the deep gash on his forearm, ignoring the blood. In the Rescue Service, pain doesn't block a task you patch up the equipment leak and move on.

We dragged him toward the safety of the floodlights. But as soon as his heavy boots touched the purple wall, the basement's electrical system gave a sharp, death-like jolt.

"Fatty" didn't attack the light head-on. it was sucking energy from the central lines, forcing the generator to take a lethal load.

Zip.

The generator box spat out a shower of white sparks and died. The purple lenses of the floodlights flickered once, twice, and went out. The safety wall disappeared. The basement collapsed into total, icy blindness.

"Status!" my partner shouted, but his voice was drowned out by a powerful electromagnetic surge in the airwaves.

We froze, pressed against a concrete column. I couldn't see anything, but my ears became radar. Through the frozen white noise, I heard it. The heavy, satisfying, rhythmic grinding of stone on stone three meters away. The monster was in the room.

And then the final failure occurred.

The Fatty Housing Office worker stopped shaking. His breathing stopped. Without a word, without reason, his body simply moved. Like a program launched in the darkness, he stepped away from the wall and walked straight into the hallwa straight toward the sound of crushing flesh.

"Stop!" I lunged into the darkness, but my fingers grasped only air.

Part3

He walked into the darkness without reason, without will, leaving the perimeter to meet the shadows F2F.

A wet, concrete crunch echoed throughout the room.

Three days before my last trip, I was walking with her.

Autumn in Nefteyugansk was short and bitter. The leaves had already rotted, the streetlights glowed yellow but offered no warmth. We walked along the embankment-the very same one where, in three days, the Rift would open in the basement of building number fourteen.

She talked about school, about some stupid movie, about how she wanted to go to St. Petersburg after ninth grade. I was silent. I always kept silent with her-because words were unnecessary. She knew.

"You seem kind of sad," she said, stopping.

"I'm just tired," I replied. And that was the truth. But not the whole truth.

She looked at me. There was something in her eyes I couldn't read. Maybe pity. Maybe understanding. Maybe she just saw the real me-and that was more terrifying than any Rift.

"You always say that," she said. "'I'm tired.' And then you leave."

She didn't know I wasn't going home. I was going into the basements, into the darkness, to the monsters. She lived in a world where the phone was the main threat.

"I love you," I said. Not for the first time. But this time, it was different. Like a farewell.

She smiled. Warmly.

"I know," she said. "And I love you too. In a friendly way."

At that moment, I realized I had no time for resentment. I simply remembered that light. So I wouldn't forget why I was still here.

He sat in his room. A room that had never been his. It was simply a place where he slept between missions.

The expander lay on the table. Forty-five kilograms of steel, which he clutched to keep from going crazy. He picked it up. One, two, three.

He thought about her. About her smile, about her voice, about how she rested her head on his shoulder in the darkness of their rented house when he was eleven. She didn't know it was his first contact with living warmth. She didn't know he wanted to leave even then. She simply rested her head-and he stayed.

For three years.

But now it seemed he had reached his limit.

He looked at the Glock 17. The modified one. The same one he had used to flee the Spirit in the park when his family died.

He picked it up. He weighed it in his hand.

"I'm tired," he said out loud.

And he stood up.

He sat on the bed. The room was cold. Outside, a polar night. Ordinary. Just like him.

The Glock lay on the table. The same one. With the serrations on the grip.

He picked it up. Squeezed it. Like a resistance band. Once, twice, three times.

He didn't cry. He couldn't cry his left eye couldn't. He just sat there, holding the gun.

He thought about her. About her hand. About her head. About how she'd said, "I know." And added, "As a friend."

He smiled. Not sadly. Just.

"Thank you for waiting," he said out loud.

He picked up the Glock.

"Three years," he said. "I waited, like you asked."

He put the barrel to his temple. With his right hand. The one with which he'd gripped the resistance band. “Thanks for the pen,” he said.

And he pressed it.

The shot was quiet. The sound was swallowed by the polar night.

He fell onto the bed. The Glock fell from his hand.

The room went silent. Only the expander lay on the floor. Forty-five kilograms of steel that would never be compressed again.

It was dark outside. The same as in the basement.

But now he was part of the darkness.

​

The polar night in Nefteyugansk was heavy, freezing the whole city in pitch darkness. The dash thermometer in our armored truck showed minus thirty-two. The cabin smelled of ozone, gun grease, and shitty instant coffee from a thermos.

I sat in the passenger seat, slowly squeezing a steel hand gripper in my jacket pocket. Forty-five gigs of a stiff metal spring gave in to my fingers - one, two, three. It kept me grounded. Inside my vest, under all that heavy tactical fabric, my heart was racing like crazy. Tachycardia. The doc at the Transneft clinic told me it was just a sudden growth spurt, but in the Breach Containment Unit, you don't argue with your pulse. You don't control your motor, you get eaten. Simple as that.

The radio on the dash crackled, cutting through the heavy white noise. The dispatcher from the Rosneft central HQ sounded completely dead inside:

"Post three, heads up. Sector Four, a five-story residential building on Naberezhnaya Street, building fourteen. We have a confirmed Space Breach in the basement. Repeat, the spawn point is in total shadow."

I stopped squeezing the steel right away. Everything inside me went cold. A Breach in a basement is the absolute worst. If a purple tear opens up out on the street, the sun and daylight shrink the shadows' lifespan to a couple of minutes. But in a pitch-black basement where no light ever gets in, a Space Breach becomes permanent. It will just sit there endlessly pumping out entities until the Unit burns it to the ground.

"What about the Saturation Phase?" my partner asked grimly, slamming the truck into gear and flooring it.

The radio groaned back with a heavy sigh from the dispatcher:

"It's fucked. There was a civilian shelter set up in that basement. The local housing utility didn't check the locks. Clean Breach Shadows got in through the vents. Eleven consumptions confirmed so far. The entity gained mass and went into 'Fat One' status. The biomass analyzer just triggered the max form-retention timer. You have exactly ninety-nine hours before total biological decay."

"Fuck," my partner muttered, gripping the wheel. "A hundred-hour tank in a residential building."

When a clean Shadow comes out of a Breach, it looks like a completely black human silhouette, like it was cut out of the night itself. No weight, no flesh, you can't stop it with a bullet. But when that shadow finds a human, it eats their life in seconds and steals their physical mass. The thing becomes real. Bones snap, muscles blow up, and a heavy, fleshy killing machine is born. Eleven people gave this bastard enough juice to walk around on its own for almost four days. It didn't even need the Breach to stay alive anymore.

Five minutes later, the truck screeched to a halt in the courtyard. The streetlights around the building were already dead - the "Fat" Shadow was siphoning power straight from the grid. From the pitch-black basement windows, we could hear a horrific, sated rumbling and the heavy grinding of concrete. The monster was expanding, forcing its new weight right into the building's foundation.

We jumped out. I had my full assault kit on. The heavy ballistic helmet was pressing on my skull, but the wide visor on the new PMK-4 mask gave a perfect view without any blur. I grabbed the heavy "Helios" quartz projector - our main weapon.

"The plan is basic," my partner said, racking the bolt on his incendiary rifle. "We don't fight this mountain of meat head-on in the dark. We go for the source. We break into the basement, find the purple tear, and blind it with directed UV light. Cut the connection to the Breach - and the 'Fat One' loses stability. Its hundred-hour clock will drop to zero in seconds. Ready?"

I took a deep breath, forcing my heart to slow down. My gloved fingers locked onto the projector's handle with a rock-solid, iron grip.

"Ready. Let's move."

We charged right at the heavy metal basement door, with a Part 2

The polar night in Nefteyugansk was heavy, freezing the whole city in pitch darkness. The dash thermometer in our armored truck showed minus thirty-two. The cabin smelled of ozone, gun grease, and shitty instant coffee from a thermos.

I sat in the passenger seat, slowly squeezing a steel hand gripper in my jacket pocket. Forty-five gigs of a stiff metal spring gave in to my fingers one, two, three. It kept me grounded. Inside my vest, under all that heavy tactical fabric, my heart was racing like crazy. Tachycardia. The doc at the Transneft clinic told me it was just a sudden growth spurt, but in the Breach Containment Unit, you don't argue with your pulse. You don't control your motor, you get eaten. Simple as that.

The radio on the dash crackled, cutting through the heavy white noise. The dispatcher from the Rosneft central HQ sounded completely dead inside:

"Post three, heads up. Sector Four, a five-story residential building on Naberezhnaya Street, building fourteen. We have a confirmed Space Breach in the basement. Repeat, the spawn point is in total shadow."

I stopped squeezing the steel right away. Everything inside me went cold. A Breach in a basement is the absolute worst. If a purple tear opens up out on the street, the sun and daylight shrink the shadows' lifespan to a couple of minutes. But in a pitch-black basement where no light ever gets in, a Space Breach becomes permanent. It will just sit there endlessly pumping out entities until the Unit burns it to the ground.

"What about the Saturation Phase?" my partner asked grimly, slamming the truck into gear and flooring it.

The radio groaned back with a heavy sigh from the dispatcher:

"It's fucked. There was a civilian shelter set up in that basement. The local housing utility didn't check the locks. Clean Breach Shadows got in through the vents. Eleven consumptions confirmed so far. The entity gained mass and went into 'Fat One' status. The biomass analyzer just triggered the max form-retention timer. You have exactly ninety-nine hours before total biological decay."

"Fuck," my partner muttered, gripping the wheel. "A hundred-hour tank in a residential building."

When a clean Shadow comes out of a Breach, it looks like a completely black human silhouette, like it was cut out of the night itself. No weight, no flesh, you can't stop it with a bullet. But when that shadow finds a human, it eats their life in seconds and steals their physical mass. The thing becomes real. Bones snap, muscles blow up, and a heavy, fleshy killing machine is born. Eleven people gave this bastard enough juice to walk around on its own for almost four days. It didn't even need the Breach to stay alive anymore.

Five minutes later, the truck screeched to a halt in the courtyard. The streetlights around the building were already dead - the "Fat" Shadow was siphoning power straight from the grid. From the pitch-black basement windows, we could hear a horrific, sated rumbling and the heavy grinding of concrete. The monster was expanding, forcing its new weight right

We jumped out. I had my full assault kit on. The heavy ballistic helmet was pressing on my skull, but the wide visor on the new PMK-4 mask gave a perfect view without any blur. I grabbed the heavy "Helios" quartz projector - our main weapon.

"The plan is basic," my partner said, racking the bolt on his incendiary rifle. "We don't fight this mountain of meat head-on in the dark. We go for the source. We break into basement, find the purple tear, and blind it with directed UV light. Cut the connection to the Breach - and the 'Fat One' loses stability. Its hundred-hour clock will drop to zero in seconds. Ready?"

I took a deep breath, forcing my heart to slow down. My gloved fingers locked onto the projector's handle with a rock-solid, iron grip.

"Ready. Let's move."

We charged right at the heavy metal basement door, with a hundred hours of permanent darkness waiting on the other side.

The polar night in Nefteyugansk was heavy, freezing the whole city in pitch darkness. The dash thermometer in our armored truck showed minus thirty-two. The cabin smelled of ozone, gun grease, and shitty instant coffee from a thermos.

I sat in the passenger seat, slowly squeezing a steel hand gripper in my jacket pocket. Forty-five gigs of a stiff metal spring gave in to my fingers one, two, three. It kept me grounded. Inside my vest, under all that heavy tactical fabric, my heart was racing like crazy. Tachycardia. The doc at the Transneft clinic told me it was just a sudden growth spurt, but in the Breach Containment Unit, you don't argue with your pulse. You don't control your motor, you get eaten. Simple as that.

The radio on the dash crackled, cutting through the heavy white noise. The dispatcher from the Rosneft central HQ sounded completely dead inside:

"Post three, heads up. Sector Four, a five-story residential building on Naberezhnaya Street, building fourteen. We have a confirmed Space Breach in the basement. Repeat, the spawn point is in total shadow."

I stopped squeezing the steel right away. Everything inside me went cold. A Breach in a basement is the absolute worst. If a purple tear opens up out on the street, the sun and daylight shrink the shadows' lifespan to a couple of minutes. But in a pitch-black basement where no light ever gets in, a Space Breach becomes permanent. It will just sit there endlessly pumping out entities until the Unit burns it to the ground.

"What about the Saturation Phase?" my partner asked grimly, slamming the truck into gear and flooring it.

The radio groaned back with a heavy sigh from the dispatcher:

"It's fucked. There was a civilian shelter set up in that basement. The local housing utility didn't check the locks. Clean Breach Shadows got in through the vents. Eleven consumptions confirmed so far. The entity gained mass and went into 'Fat One' status. The biomass analyzer just triggered the max form-retention timer. You have exactly ninety-nine hours before total biological decay."

"Fuck," my partner muttered, gripping the wheel. "A hundred-hour tank in a residential building."

When a clean Shadow comes out of a Breach, it looks like a completely black human silhouette, like it was cut out of the night itself. No weight, no flesh, you can't stop it with a bullet. But when that shadow finds a human, it eats their life in seconds and steals their physical mass. The thing becomes real. Bones snap, muscles blow up, and a heavy, fleshy killing machine is born. Eleven people gave this bastard enough juice to walk around on its own for almost four days. It didn't even need the Breach to stay alive anymore.

Five minutes later, the truck screeched to a halt in the courtyard. The streetlights around the building were already dead - the "Fat" Shadow was siphoning power straight from the grid. From the pitch-black basement windows, we could hear a horrific, sated rumbling and the heavy grinding of concrete. The monster was expanding, forcing its new weight right

We jumped out. I had my full assault kit on. The heavy ballistic helmet was pressing on my skull, but the wide visor on the new PMK-4 mask gave a perfect view without any blur. I grabbed the heavy "Helios" quartz projector - our main weapon.

"The plan is basic," my partner said, racking the bolt on his incendiary rifle. "We don't fight this mountain of meat head-on in the dark. We go for the source. We break into basement, find the purple tear, and blind it with directed UV light. Cut the connection to the Breach - and the 'Fat One' loses stability. Its hundred-hour clock will drop to zero in seconds. Ready?"

I took a deep breath, forcing my heart to slow down. My gloved fingers locked onto the projector's handle with a rock-solid, iron grip.

"Ready. Let's move."

We charged right at the heavy metal basement door, with a hundred hours of permanent darkness waiting on the other side.