The shriek of the emergency alert tore through the manor, slicing cleanly through the quiet room. It signaled an outright arrest, the sharp cry of a failing pulse. Stasya felt the profound shift within her, the icy calm that always descended when chaos erupted. Alek’s grip on her hand tightened for a fraction of a second, then released as he sprang into motion, pulling her with him from the darkroom.
They burst into the main corridor, where the alarm’s pulsing red light painted the polished floors in urgent streaks. Footfalls echoed from every direction as staff, alerted by the internal monitoring system, converged on the old man's wing. Nurses in crisp white tunics, two junior doctors, and even a harried-looking chef carrying a basin of ice raced past, their faces etched with professional urgency. Lyudmila Zima, draped in a silk robe, appeared at the end of a hallway, her face pale but her eyes sharp, already calculating. Irina, who must have retreated to her own chambers, emerged moments later, her earlier defeat replaced by a predatory eagerness that made Stasya’s stomach clench.
Stasya scanned the developing scene. Amidst the frantic, purposeful rush, one figure moved with an unnerving, deliberate slowness. Krystof, still in his dark wool livery, stood by the entrance to the old man's private study, moving away from the clinic suite rather than toward it. His hands, usually so precise in their subservience, were working with an almost mechanical focus. He was locking the heavy oak doors of the study, securing them with a series of intricate bolts, his gaze fixed on the task rather than the unfolding emergency just down the hall. His movements spoke of a chilling pre-planning, a man executing a carefully laid contingency. He was not protecting the dying; he was protecting what the dying left behind.
“He’s securing the study,” Stasya murmured, her voice barely audible above the alarm, but Alek heard her. His chin set hard. He understood the implication immediately. The final, revised testament, if it existed, would be there. And Krystof was ensuring no one, especially not Stasya, could access it.
“Stay here,” Alek commanded, a cold edge to his voice. He peeled away from her, striding toward the cluster of attending staff crowding the bedroom doorway. “What is the situation?” he boomed, his voice cutting through the rising clamor. His height and the sheer force of his presence commanded attention. “Is there anything to be done?”
His questions were a diversion, a carefully crafted theatrical performance. He drew every eye in the hall toward the threshold and the monitors. Stasya understood. This was her window.
She moved with the quiet grace of a shadow, slipping through the periphery of the growing crowd. Krystof, still absorbed in his task of securing the study, had his back mostly to her. She pressed herself against the cold marble of the wall, moving in an almost liquid flow, until she was at the study door. The last bolt clicked into place. Krystof paused, his head cocked toward the faint scuffle of resuscitation efforts down the hall. He turned, his eyes scanning the corridor, a faint frown on his face. He saw Lyudmila and Irina, their expressions a mix of grim expectation and something akin to ghoulish fascination. He saw Alek, still demanding answers from the medical staff. His gaze swept past the spot where Stasya had been standing moments before, finding it empty. A flicker of suspicion crossed his face, but he dismissed it, satisfied with his work. He then walked toward the master bedroom, settling his face into grave concern.
As soon as he was out of sight, Stasya acted. She knew the Permafrost. She knew its secrets, or at least, she was learning them. The study wasn’t impenetrable. She felt along the ornate carvings of the doorframe, her fingers searching. There. A narrow gap, almost invisible, where a decorative panel met the main frame. It was a service access, a relic from the sanatorium days, designed for discreet deliveries of medicine or communications without disturbing a patient. It wasn't large enough for a person to fully enter, but it was enough to slip a hand through, or perhaps to dislodge a latch from the inside.
She pressed firmly, applying pressure to the right spot, and with a soft *click*, the panel gave way. A faint breeze, carrying the scent of old paper and leather, wafted out. She reached inside, her fingers stretching, until she felt the cool metal of the master lock’s inner mechanism. It was a simple tumbler. A few deft manipulations, a quiet *thunk*, and the door was unlocked.
Stasya slipped inside, pulling the panel back into place. The room was dim, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the pale light of morning. The air was thick with the scent of cigars and old ink. She moved quickly, her eyes scanning the room, ignoring the towering bookshelves and the imposing mahogany desk. She went straight to the large, ornate wastebin beside the desk, a gilded monstrosity usually reserved for discarded rough drafts of correspondence.
Inside, amidst crumpled tissues and a discarded tea bag, she saw it. A glint of white paper, torn into dozens of small, jagged pieces. Krystof’s work. He hadn’t bothered to burn it; he’d assumed simple shredding would suffice. He had underestimated her archival training.
Stasya knelt, her movements quick and precise. She began gathering the shreds, smoothing them out against the cold parquet. It was a painstaking task, like assembling a shattered mosaic. The alarm continued to blare outside, a constant, shrill reminder of the urgency. She ignored it, her focus absolute. A corner here, a jagged edge there. The distinctive Zima Corp watermark. A date, recent. A column of numbers.
“...genetic markers consistent with paternal lineage…”
The text aligned into the header of a clinical assessment, lines knitting together beneath her fingers.
“...subject: Petyr Ruslanovich Koslov…”
The name stared up at her from the floor, undeniable, irrefutable. Petyr. Her Petyr. The DNA test. It confirmed everything Irina had said, everything Alek had known. Krystof had destroyed the proof of Petyr's lineage, hoping to bury it with the dying magnate.
The alarm suddenly ceased, plunging the manor into an abrupt, unsettling quiet. The silence was more jarring than the noise. The house had lost its master.
Just as she aligned the final scrap, confirming the recent date of the test, the heavy front doors of the estate groaned open. Stasya froze, the paper shards scattered around her. A new voice, deep and resonant, cut through the hushed tension of the assembled family in the foyer.
“My apologies for my late arrival,” the voice boomed, calm and utterly self-assured. “Krystof sent for me. I believe this unfortunate news makes me, Petyr Ruslanovich Koslov, the rightful heir to the Zima legacy.”
Stasya, still kneeling on the study floor, heard the collective gasp from the foyer. Then, his footsteps began to approach, slow and deliberate, echoing ominously on the polished floors. She pushed herself to her feet, clutching the reconstituted sheets of the lineage report. The study door swung open, and there he stood. Petyr. He wasn’t smiling. His face, usually so open and kind, was now a cold mask of triumph. His eyes, dark as winter ice, met hers across the distance. He had known all along. And now, he had come to claim what he believed was his. He looked directly at Stasya, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, a silent declaration of war.