Red Horizon

You open your eyes. Instead of a familiar ceiling — a faded lampshade and a portrait of Lenin above the writing desk in the dormitory for young specialists. Outside the window — pre‑dawn mist over the workshops, the distant hoot of the factory siren, and the clatter of trains at the marshalling yard. The air smells of fuel oil, fresh bread from the bakery, and Prima cigarettes.

You step outside and notice them. By the gate stand two: a stocky guy in a padded jacket with ash‑blond hair, leaning on his bicycle, and his older companion — a stern man in a leather coat, with an ID badge in his inside pocket. Their gazes are sharp as wolves'. And a little farther off, by the newspaper stand, frozen in place, is the old shop superintendent in his greasy overalls — he's staring at the production report, and his fingers are trembling.

You know the truth. What the locals don't. This factory holds more than just bolts and gears. In the closed laboratory, they're testing something that was supposed to be a breakthrough – but has already claimed the lives of three testers. The one everyone calls "the shock worker" is actually playing a double game with Western intelligence. And the lab assistant who brings tea to the design bureau has been secretly photographing blueprints on microfilm for six months.

Ahead lie a change of power in the regional party committee, betrayal, an accident that will be written off as "human error," and the bitter irony: you remember which of these people will be convicted, who will receive an order, and who will simply be "lost" in the paperwork. But you cannot change a single detail. And you certainly cannot tell anyone that among the engineers, a mole has already appeared — and by next week he'll destroy the results of three years' work.

Welcome to the Soviet Union, traveller. There's no witchcraft here. Only people, machines, and the Party. But sometimes that's more than enough to drive you mad.