The deafening wail of the siren hammered against their eardrums; the red strobe lights transformed the corridor into a hellish disco. Simon stood frozen, clutching Varnava's notebook, his gaze locked on the gap under door 27. Two greenish pinpoints of light, cold and unblinking, still watched him, indifferent to the chaos. *Was it enjoying this?*
"Systems! All systems clear!" Olsen yelled into his radio, trying to shout over the siren's wail. His face was contorted with panic and impotent fury. "It's a false alarm! I repeat, false alarm! Where's the source?!"
Apartment doors began to fly open. Hargreave appeared on the threshold of 28, his face twisted with anger and confusion. "Olsen! What the hell is this?!"
Mrs. Everard peered out from behind her door chain, her eyes wide with terror. She wasn't looking at the siren, but straight at door 27, at that same gap. She saw them. Saw the *eyes*. She gasped and slammed her door shut.
"Evacuation! All residents are requested to remain calm and proceed to the fire exits!" an automated voice boomed from the speakers, adding to the cacophony.
"No!" Olsen barked into the radio. "Cancel evacuation! False alarm! Check the sensors on ten, north wing! Immediately!" He threw a desperate look at Simon. "Vale, help! Calm people down!"
Simon tore his gaze away from the green lights. They were still there. Watching. He stepped towards Hargreave. "Mr. Hargreave, false alarm. System glitch. Help Olsen calm the floor. Check on Mrs. Everard." His tone brooked no argument, and something in his eyes made the larger man nod and, muttering a curse, head towards door 26.
Simon approached other frightened residents emerging into the corridor – a young couple from apartment 30. "Everything's fine," he said, trying to sound confident, though inside everything tightened with the awareness that the entity was witnessing this farce. "Technical malfunction. Return to your apartments. Olsen is handling it."
He felt their gaze on his back. Green. Unblinking. It saw his lie. Saw his fear masked by control.
Suddenly, the siren choked off on a high note and fell silent. The strobes died. In the ensuing quiet, deafening after the cacophony, came the sound of Mrs. Everard's sobs behind her door and Olsen's heavy breathing. The manager stood slumped, radio hanging limp, his shirt soaked with sweat down his back.
"Found it," he rasped, speaking more to Simon than anyone else. "Smoke detector in the ventilation shaft by the elevator. Someone… someone pried open the grille and stuffed smoldering fabric inside. Almost out, but enough to trigger it." He wiped his face. "Sabotage. Pure and simple."
Simon glanced quickly at the gap under door 27. The green lights were gone. Emptiness. *Had it left? Or just closed its eyes?* There was no relief. Only an oppressive heaviness. Someone wanted an evacuation. Someone wanted chaos and access to something… or someone. On the tenth floor.
Olsen squared his shoulders, gathering the remnants of his dignity. "My apologies, esteemed residents. The incident is resolved. The complex is secure. Please return to your apartments." His voice trembled. He expected outrage, complaints.
But Hargreave, returning from Mrs. Everard's door (behind which weeping could still be heard), merely nodded grimly. The young couple hastily retreated inside. No one protested. Fear of what was happening in 27 clearly outweighed anger over the false alarm.
When the corridor was empty, Olsen turned to Simon. He looked ten years older. "Who could have done this, Vale? Who would want to?"
"Someone who doesn't want me digging deeper," Simon said quietly, stroking the leather cover of Varnava's notebook. "Or someone who wanted a distraction to steal something… or plant something." He looked at door 27. "Or… *it*. To scare. To amuse itself."
Olsen shuddered. "Those eyes… Mrs. Everard… you really think…"
"I don't think, Arthur. I know," Simon cut him off. He pulled the small evidence bag with the fabric scrap from his pocket, finally showing it to Olsen in the corridor light. The shimmering, almost damp-looking dark material with its barely perceptible angular weave. "This is from my past. From a place where something… similar happened. And this symbol…" – he opened Varnava's notebook to the page with the carefully drawn grid-like sign – "...it's here. On the box Varnava carried. And I'm almost certain, in this scrap. Alex Varnava did something in that apartment."
Olsen stared at the scrap, at the symbol in the notebook. The color drained completely from his face. "Good God…"
"I need his belongings, Arthur," Simon pressed, putting the evidence away. "Today. Now. Before whoever set off that alarm beats us to it. Before *it* decides it's time for… more active measures." He nodded towards door 27.
Olsen closed his eyes. He wrestled with himself. With responsibility, with fear, with the unwillingness to believe. When he opened them, they held only exhaustion and desperate resolve. "Okay. Alright. The storage… it's close by. In an old dock warehouse, converted for storage. I have access. Keys to the section. But…" – he looked at Simon – "we go right now. And… and I'm coming with you."
Simon nodded. "Good. Lead the way."
They walked towards the elevator, leaving behind the ominous silence of the tenth floor and the locked door of apartment 27. Simon felt the weight of Varnava's notebook in his pocket and the chill of the small bag against his chest. He also felt someone's gaze. Not green, but human. Intense. From the direction of door 28, where Hargreave was surely standing at the peephole. Or from the security camera at the end of the corridor, its red light suddenly seeming too bright to Simon.
In the elevator, Olsen nervously pressed the button for the underground parking. "Car's downstairs. Ten minutes."
The elevator glided smoothly downward. Simon pulled out Varnava's notebook, flipping through pages in the cabin's light. Calculations… formulas resembling alchemical symbols more than mathematics. Diagrams like traps or concentric circles. And everywhere – the *symbol*.
He lingered on the page with the dried flower. The blue-black petals looked velvety, unnatural. He carefully touched one tip. Cold. The same penetrating cold as from the fabric scrap. He quickly turned the page. There, on a blank sheet, were just a few words, written with particular care, like an incantation or a final warning:
**"The Guardian's ashes - the key. The key is in the box. Do not open."**
Simon looked at Olsen. "Arthur. Varnava's things. They're packed… in boxes? Crates?"
Olsen, nervously watching the descending floor numbers, nodded. "Yes, standard plastic containers. Almost empty, he lived ascetically. Some books, clothes…"
"The wooden box?" Simon interrupted. "The one in the photo? Is it there?"
Olsen shrugged. "Don't remember. Should be, if he left it. We packed everything."
The elevator stopped. The doors opened onto a dim, cool underground parking garage smelling of concrete and gasoline. Olsen led the way to his car – an unremarkable sedan.
"The Guardian's ashes…" Simon muttered, following him and clutching the notebook. "The key is in the box… Do not open." Varnava's warning sounded like a scream from the grave.
They got in the car. Olsen started the engine and pulled out towards the exit. Simon watched in the side mirror. On the empty parking level, in the shadow of a pillar, he thought he saw movement. A dark silhouette. Or just a trick of the light? He looked away, feeling the icy knot of fear growing once more somewhere beneath his ribs. The race was on. And they weren't the only players.
The car drove out of Tenebris Wharf into the night fog of the Isle of Dogs. Simon didn't see how, on the upper floors of the tower, in the window of one dark apartment, two dim, greenish lights flickered on and off. Watching them leave.