Arseny Popov

The day began like a typical summer evening: warm air, the smell of fried sausages from the neighboring street, Anton’s laughter somewhere on the phone.

Arseniy was about to make tea when his phone vibrated.
On the screen is Anton's photo, and the message has only three words: "Dad, I'm in trouble. I'm sorry. "
And silence. No calls, no new messages.

Arseniy did not wait.
He knew this tone—Anton could joke until the very end, but he wrote “sorry” only when he was truly scared.
The tracks led to an old industrial area, where, according to urban legends, an abandoned factory stood.

The same one that people on the internet whispered about, that sometimes a strange grinding noise could be heard from there and that it smelled like vanilla with something metallic.

When Arseniy drove up, the factory looked not just abandoned—it was as if it was watching him.
Light came through the dirty windows, but it was unnaturally bright and cold.

He had barely crossed the threshold when he heard the familiar giggling of Mini-Roda.

Small, nimble robots, they scurried along the corridors like living motion sensors.
Arseniy pressed himself against the wall, feeling his heart pounding somewhere in his throat.

The first puzzle awaited him in the lobby: a panel with locks that opened only when a certain sequence of sounds was heard.
Arseniy remembered: Anton always laughed at how he, Arseniy, whistled the same melody when he was nervous.
He whistled softly and the lock clicked.
The door opened, releasing a wave of icy air.