The autumn forest burned with a furious, almost unnatural crimson. It seemed as if someone had poured whole tankers of scarlet paint over the tree crowns, and now this color was searing into the retina and pressing on the mind. But for Redrick Schuhart, this "rusty forest" was a familiar, almost routine route. Another trip for artifacts promised nothing new: old, long-studied paths where, to his memory, nothing deadly lurked. And yet, Redrick did not allow himself to relax. The Zone does not forgive carelessness. He moved softly and springily, a heavy backpack with a sleeping bag strapped to the top pulling at his shoulders, while his heavy boots barely rustled through the fallen leaves.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a soft, barely noticeable shimmer in the air. Redrick instantly froze, turning into pure hearing and sight. Experience suggested: the Zone is rarely empty. He slowly turned his head, peering into the space between the trunks.

And suddenly again.

To his right, right above the road, a sharp rainbow glare cut through the air. It wasn't just hanging in the air; the space around it seemed to refract, covered in neon streaks and digital "garbage," like on a damaged monitor.

Redrick took a short, careful step back. His hand habitually dove into his pocket for a bolt. A short swing and the piece of metal went whistling toward the distortion.

The bolt didn't fall to the ground. A sharp, dry crack sounded, as if a live cable had been torn apart. The metal was thrown aside, striking a shower of bright, acrid sparks. And at that very moment, the rainbow distortions multiplied. They flared up, growing, stretching up and out, surrounding him in a dense, shimmering ring.

"What the hell..." — His voice came out in a low hiss

Redrick hadn't noticed how he ended up right in the epicenter.

The pistol was in his hands instantly, as if it had jumped into his palm on its own. The cold steel, safety off, rested habitually in his hand. Redrick knew perfectly well that his weapon wouldn't save him from an anomaly, but it made him feel less sick with fear. He froze tensely, slightly hunched over, trying to catch the slightest movement in the shimmering haze. The muscles in his jaw bulged, and his gray-green eyes narrowed. The space shimmered and hummed, but he had never encountered such anomalies before.

The night had swallowed the Zone whole, leaving only the sharp, cold pinpricks of unfamiliar stars overhead. Redrick had chosen a small, dry clearing near the ruins of an old drainage facility—a place where the ground was firm, the wind was blocked by a crumbling concrete wall, and, most importantly, the anomalies were dormant. The day had been grueling, dragging on for what felt like an eternity of navigating invisible death traps and hauling heavy loot. But now, the heavy canvas of his jacket was warm, and the fire crackled rhythmically, casting dancing shadows across the dirt.

He sat cross-legged, his heavy backpack propped up behind him, the butt of his pistol resting comfortably against his hip. In his hands, he held a small, steaming tin can. He scooped out a generous chunk of meat with a battered metal spoon. It was the good stuff—real beef tushonka, not the watery soy substitute they sold cheap at the market. He had spent a little extra on it, and right now, as the rich, salty flavor melted on his tongue, it felt like the best decision he had made all week. Somewhere in the dark, miles away, a night bird let out a sharp, mournful cry, followed by the distant rustle of the wind through the dead grass. It was quiet. Almost peaceful.

Then came the sound.

A soft, deliberate rustle of fabric. The crunch of a boot on dry earth.

Redrick’s body reacted before his brain fully processed the noise. The tin can clattered to the ground, spilling its precious contents. In a blur of motion, he pushed off his heels, launching himself backward away from the firelight and into the pitch-black shadows cast by the concrete ruins. The cold steel of his pistol was already in his hands, the safety clicking off with a sharp snap.

He knew he was vulnerable. A fire in the Zone was a beacon, a stupid mistake, but he had checked the perimeter. He had thrown his bolts, listened to the silence, and verified that no one—and nothing—was out here.

He pressed his back against the cold stone, his breathing shallow and controlled, his gray-green eyes straining against the dark. The footsteps had stopped.

Just at the very edge of the fire's glow, where the light fought a losing battle against the night, a silhouette took shape. It was close. Close enough to see the outline of a figure.

Redrick raised the gun, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a whip, harsh and echoing in the empty night.

"Freeze! Don't you move a fucking muscle!"

He waited, his finger resting dangerously close to the trigger, the iron sights aimed dead center at the stranger's chest. The night held its breath.

"Who the hell are you?" he barked again, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl. "Show yourself! Hands where I can see them, or I swear to God, I'll put a bullet in you before you take another step!"

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