Chapter 5

I woke to a dull, aching pain — my neck and shoulder had gone numb.

For a few seconds I had no idea where I was, staring dumbly into the grey emptiness in front of me. Out of the basement's half-light the shape of the room slowly emerged, like an image developing on film. The yellow incandescent lamp over the table was still burning, giving off a dry warmth. The old ThinkPad hummed on, quiet and steady, as if the whole night hadn't tired it at all. Sheets from the folder lay fanned out on the floor, the pencil had rolled off somewhere under the massive cabinet, and right by my hand stood a ceramic mug of coffee, long cold, skinned over with a dull grey film.

Third time in a day. I'd made it and forgotten.

I glanced at the dial of my mechanical watch. Eight seventeen. So I had blacked out after all — collapsed face-down on the table without even noticing.

Memory came back reluctantly, in ragged pieces. Helen. The ledger sheet she'd set in front of me face-down and hadn't turned over for a long time. Row twelve — her own handwriting, her identification number, her own note: technical error. The old man beyond the basement grating. And a dead computer that somehow, impossibly, knew today's date.

The chair across from me was pushed in under the table, neat to the centimeter. On the edge of the table — a sheet folded into quarters, torn from my notepad. I already knew what was on it.

I folded the page and slipped it into the inside pocket of my coat. Strange: as recently as last night I'd have called an exit like that cheap spy-novel theatrics. Today, an ordinary sheet of paper with dog-eared corners inspired more trust in me than any screen on the planet.

London met me with heavy, damp air. The rain had stopped deep in the night, but the city hadn't had time to dry — the asphalt gleamed underfoot as if coated in a thin film of liquid black glass. Double-decker buses, black cabs, cyclist couriers — the whole world moved along its familiar, rehearsed route.

Except me.

A block on, I ducked into a small coffee shop that smelled of cinnamon. It was nearly empty this early — just a man in a business suit reading a newspaper by the window, holding it the old-fashioned way, with both hands, the whole spread open.

The girl behind the counter looked up as I was still pushing the door open — gave me a quick, practiced glance, the kind that commits to nothing, and smiled faintly:

"Morning. The usual?"

I went blank for a second. The usual. So she remembered me. So I still existed, at least here, in this little café with the cinnamon smell and the fake palm tree in the corner.

"Large americano, please. No milk."

When it came time to pay, I tapped my phone against the terminal. A grey bar. Error. My card — a beep. Declined. The second card — the same.

The barista shrugged apologetically:

"Sorry… our terminal's been acting up all morning."

"It's fine," I said, fishing a crumpled twenty-pound note out of my wallet. "Sometimes machines just lose their minds."

"Exactly," she nodded, counting out my change. "Yesterday it was down for a whole half hour. I thought we'd been hacked."

I smiled. Didn't explain.

Ten minutes later I was sitting in the darkest corner of the coffee shop, behind the spreading leaf of the fake palm. My work laptop lay on my knees. Corporate email — blank page, account doesn't exist. Remote infrastructure — access denied. European node, American proxy, mobile data — nothing. Every system answered with the same calm, almost polite tone: you were never here.

Last was livecity.cam.

The page loaded instantly. Interface, maps, live streams — everything worked perfectly. I nearly breathed out with relief. I scrolled all the way to the bottom.

Owner: Daniel Mercer.

I read it again. Closed my eyes. Counted to three. Opened them.

Daniel Mercer.

Five years. Five years I'd built this — evenings, weekends, instead of holidays, instead of a normal life. She'd said once: "You love this site more than people." I'd laughed then. I wouldn't laugh now.

The bank's main branch was two streets away. I nearly ran there.

Inside — warmth, quiet music, a short queue. The woman at the counter, her hair immaculate, nodded gently:

"Good afternoon. How can I help?"

"I need to check an account," I said, laying my passport on the counter.

She typed for two minutes. Then her fingers stopped. She frowned, tried something else. Then again. The polite smile slowly slid off her face.

"I'm sorry, sir… the database shows you've never been a client of this bank."

She turned the monitor toward me. Search by surname — zero results. By passport number — empty. The system was working exactly as designed. As if a man named Michael Lawson had genuinely never existed.

When I stepped outside, it was drizzling again. Fine, cold mist clung to my face. I walked without choosing a direction, without looking around — my legs moved on their own, my body following some long-learned route while my head tried to put what had just happened into words. It couldn't. The thoughts scattered the moment I tried to catch them — all that was left was the cold under my collar and the wet asphalt under my soles.

By the square, I stopped short.

There, by the iron railing, stood the same old man. Worn coat, flat cap, umbrella-cane tucked under his arm. He was throwing crumbs of stale bread to the pigeons — with the steady, practiced movements of a man who does it every day. The birds ringed his feet in a dense grey circle.

He didn't turn his head as I came closer. Kept watching the birds.

"When the documents disappear…" he paused and threw another handful of crumbs, "…a person still remains, for a while."

I went still.

"When the witnesses disappear…" another pause, longer than the first, "…only memory remains."

"What are you talking about?" My voice came out hoarse, almost pleading.

The old man slowly raised his head. His pale, faded eyes met mine. A completely calm gaze. Almost kind.

"Nothing, for now," he said very calmly. "You'll see it all soon enough yourself."

He turned and walked off into the misty alley. Without looking back. I stayed where I was. I was absolutely certain: if I ran, I wouldn't catch him. He would simply dissolve into the grey damp.

I didn't switch my phone back on until half an hour later, under the awning of a closed bookshop. The window was coated in a layer of dust — the shop had closed long ago, but the sign had never come down. I looked at it for a few seconds while the phone booted up.

Twenty missed calls. All from Helen.

The last message — eighteen minutes ago. Short as a gunshot:

Don't go back to the office. Whatever you do.

I looked up.

Only now did I realize I'd been walking blind this whole time, choosing no direction. My legs had brought me here on their own — years of habit, a route my body had learned before my mind ever did.

On the opposite side of the street stood an old brick building, dark with age. My office.

I was certain I'd locked the door twice yesterday. But now the old wood swayed slowly, barely perceptibly, in gusts of cold wind. The door stood open a few centimeters, a dark gap gaping in it.

As if someone, deep in the empty corridor, was patiently waiting for me to come back.