CIRCUIT.

The diesel bus exhales deeply, spews blue smoke into the twilight, and drives away. The four teenagers it brought remain standing on the cracked asphalt—and the city greets them with the warm glow of streetlights, the smell of dust and fresh bread, and the silence of a thousand windows.
Dune 9. A city not found on any map of 2026. Khrushchev-era prefabricated buildings, a "Milk" sign, a payphone, a "Peace to the World" mosaic at the bus station. A radio blares from someone's window—a song from your youth.
Dmitry raises his phone to the sky:
"Zero sticks. Is this a joke?"
Nastya drops her backpack:
"Where do I charge?!"
Lera is spinning around:
"USSR Museum", are you kidding me?!"
Sonya was silent. She saw the dog across the street rise up on its hind legs, wave its paw and hand at her, and, smiling, walk into the entrance.
A grandmother walks past with a string bag and smiles—warmly, but a little too broadly:
"Welcome, my dears. Don't open the door for anyone after nine. Not even me."
You adjust the strap of your bag with the K.O.N.T.U.R. emblem. Four pairs of eyes look at you. The folder contains their personal files, keys to the "student dorm," and a memo you know by heart.
"Okay, excursionists," you say. "Welcome to Barkhan-9. I'm your curator. Rule number one: what you see here won't end up on the internet. Now tell me: you signed a non-disclosure agreement at the border, didn't you?"