“An isolation chamber,” Santali said, moving to the porthole where shards of drift ice slid past like silent, pale ghosts. “Or a cage.”

“The formalin trace originated from the ventilation shaft in that sector.” X zoomed in on the structural diagrams on her tablet. “Look. Lab Three shares a bulkhead with cold storage, but has a dedicated refrigeration line spliced directly in. They’re not just storing something in there—they’re keeping it at a precise, cryogenic temperature.”

A heavy quiet fell between them. Outside, the first sizable ice floe scraped against the hull with a low, grating rumble. The ship shuddered faintly.

"I'll scout it tonight," X said.

"Too risky."

"That's why it's me." Her eyes met his, a cold, calculating light in their depths. "'Anna Petrova' has a reason to be in the lab late—she's a workaholic with a grudge against access restrictions—a confrontation is in character. Even if I'm caught, the cover holds. You can't. 'Lev' doesn't have the nerve."

The logic was sound, irrefutable. Santali gave a curt nod. "What do you need from me?"

“Hold here. Maintain the alibi. If you hear alarms, or if I breach the three-hour window…” A deliberate pause. “Execute B.”

Plan B: Santali proceeds immediately to the predetermined rendezvous point—the starboard lifeboat station—and prepares for emergency extraction.

"Understood," He paused, then added, "Be careful."

“Understood.” He paused, then added the professionally superfluous, yet operationally critical line: “Maintain situational awareness.”

X glanced at him. A ghost of a smirk—less humor, more acknowledgment of shared irony—touched her lips. "I always am," she replied.

---

The first day of the voyage passed uneventfully. At lunch and dinner, Santali continued his silent audit. Professor Karlsson remained a solitary figure, speaking only when necessary. Emma Watson had quickly befriended a group of younger crew members, her laughter a bright, periodic signal against the ambient noise.

Matsuki Kenichi, however, had vanished. He missed both meals. Inquiries with the crew yielded a a polite, rehearsed script: "Professor Matsuki is seasick. Cabin rest."

But when Santali passed Matsuki's door, he detected a faint, rhythmic electronic beep—beep—beep from within, about once per second. The telltale pulse of a vital signs monitor.

By 22:00, the ship observed a quiet curfew. Corridor lights dimmed to a submarine gloom, punctuated by the bloody glow of exit signs. Santali remained in his room, seated at the desk with his geological notes spread open, a pencil in hand—a tableau of academic diligence, yet his entire focus was on the sounds in the hallway.

At 23:07, the almost imperceptible sigh of a door closing next door. A whisper of movement fading toward the stairs.

X was in play.

Santali set down the pencil and went to his door, pressing his ear against the cool metal. He could hear his own heartbeat, steady at 62 beats per minute. He could hear the engine’s deep vibrato and the distant, crushing groan of ice against the hull, a rhythmic thrumming like the heartbeat of some great beast.

Time stretched. 23:42. 00:09. 00:37...

At 01:03, a new sound: footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Not X’s disciplined, weight-distributed glide. These were heavier, more urgent. A pair, maybe a trio. They stopped outside 208. A knock. A beat of silence. Another, more insistent knock.

Santali’s breath stilled. His right hand drifted slowly to his waist, where a ceramic dagger—the only weapon he'd managed to smuggle aboard—was concealed.

Muffled voices spoke outside, the words indistinct. Then came the sharp, digital chirp of a master key overriding a lock. The door to 208 opened. Someone entered, then exited just as quickly.

"Not in her room," a male voice said in English, tinged with a Nordic accent—likely one of the crew.

“No activity logged at the lab either,” a deeper voice responded. “Pull the surveillance feed.”

The footsteps receded.

Santali moved back to the center of the room, mind racing through scenarios.

Had X been compromised? Unlikely. If she had, alarms would be blaring. More probable was a routine check, or perhaps Matsuki's 'seasickness' had raised flags.

He checked his watch: 01:17. X had been dark for two hours and ten minutes. The agreed limit was three.

At 01:33, the faintest click from next door.

Santali was on his feet instantly, but he didn't move. He waited a thirty-count, confirming the absence of trailing signals, then rapped a pre-arranged sequence against the shared wall:

tap-tap-tap… tap… tap-tap—three short taps, one long, two short.

The response came: two short, three long.

All-Clear.

A slow, controlled exhale. He returned to his desk. Moments later, a knock—standard, not covert— sounded at his door.

He opened it to find First Officer Ericsson and a broad-shouldered crewman blocking the lumen.

“Apologies for the hour, Dr. Ivanov,” Ericsson said, his expression carved from neutral stone. “Routine security sweep. We noticed Dr. Petrova isn't in her cabin. Do you know where she might be？”

Santali adjusted his glasses, orchestrating a micro-expression of confused concern. “Anna? Not in her room? Perhaps in the lab? She was… agitated about the sampling coordinates after dinner. Said she might review data…”

“All lab access is logged and currently inactive,” Ericsson countered, his gaze locking onto Santali’s with calibrated pressure. “When was the last time you saw her?”

"After dinner, around half-past seven. We briefly discussed the sampling plan for tomorrow, then she returned to her cabin." Santali infused his voice with a thread of escalating, scholarly anxiety. "Has something happened? Is the vessel secure?"

The performance was perfect: a timid academic, growing worried about his colleague and his own safety.

Ericsson studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "I'm sure it's nothing. She may be in another common area. We'll keep looking. For your own safety, please remain in your cabin."

“Yes, of course,” Santali nodded, closing the door.

He leaned against it, listening to the fading murmur of Ericsson's voice to the other crewman: "...not here... keep searching..."

Their footsteps faded into the ship’s perpetual hum.

Twenty minutes later, at 02:14, a knock sounded from the wall: one sustained press, one brief.

Santali responded. Moments later, a faint tap came from his window—not the porthole, but the smaller ventilation window in the head.

He entered the cramped space and unlatched the window. A gust of frigid air sliced inward, sharp with the clean, lethal scent of frozen salt. Outside, X was pressed against the ship’s hull like a gecko, one hand gripping a drainpipe, the other extending a waterproof pouch.

Santali took the pouch and pulled her inside. She moved with a feline grace—and was already sealing the window and activating the signal jammer before her boots touched the floor.

“Compromised?” he asked, his fingers already working the pouch’s hermetic seal. Inside, a cryo-vial containing a sliver of greyish-white tissue suspended in preservative.

“Nearly,” X said, shrugging off her jacket, which crackled with a shell of frost. Her voice was steady, but her breathing was slightly rapid. “Lab 3 is indeed an isolation ward. There was a man inside, unconscious, on life support. He… briefly surfaced for a few seconds while I was there. ”

She took the towel Santali offered, wiping the ice melt from her face. “He opened his eyes, saw me, and spoke.”

“What did he say?”

“ ‘The Painter is alive.’ ” X’s dark eyes held a sharp, piercing intensity as she stared at Santali. “Then he submerged again. I took a tissue sample. Heard footsteps right after—had to egress via the external hull.”

Santali held the vial to the dim light. Not brain matter, the texture was wrong. More like… spinal cord or a sympathetic ganglion.

“What did he look like?”

“Fifties, Asian descent, emaciated. Multiple surgical scars. A tattoo on the inside of his left wrist—an ink brush, with a single drop of ink falling from its tip.” Her delivery was dispassionate. “The Painter’s mark.”

A cold wire of dread drew taut along Santali’s spine. ‘The Painter’ had died of carcinoma twelve months ago. He was The Veil’s premier forger, the architect of every identity they currently wore. If the man’s words were true…

“We need more intel,” Santali said, his voice low. “His condition? Could he be roused?”

“Deep coma. Minimal EEG activity. The life support system is advanced—military-grade, far beyond not maritime.” X paused. “And there was something else in the lab.”

She produced a modified phone—a specialized imaging device. The screen lit up, displaying grainy but discernible photos of a control console inside the lab, data streams scrolling across its display.

Santali zoomed in on one. The data was encrypted, but he recognized the format—the standard log format for a secondary node of the Nightwatcher network. The header tag read:

PROJECT DESIGNATION : ME (MIRROR).

“Mirror,” X whispered. “The Master’s warning. ‘Beware the self in the mirror.’”

Outside, the ship’s ice-breaking roar suddenly intensified, an uneasy growl. Santali glanced through the porthole. In the distance, a massive iceberg gleamed bone-white under the moonlight, like the skeleton of some leviathan.

At 03:00, the ship’s PA system crackled violently to life. “Attention all personnel, attention all personnel. Report to the mess hall on A-deck immediately. Repeat, all personnel to the mess hall on A-Deck, now.”

It wasn’t Captain Hansen’s voice. It was Eiriksson’s. Terse, toneless, offering no explanation.

X and Santali exchanged a glance.

“Compromised?” X asked, her voice low.

“Unlikely. If it were us, they wouldn’t call an assembly. They’d storm the room directly.” Santali’s mind raced through possibilities. “Something else has happened aboard.”

“Such as?”

“Such as someone going missing.”

They made swift, silent adjustments: straightened clothing, secured all compromising items into hidden panels or flush disposals, and stepped out. The corridor was filling—crew rubbing sleep from their eyes, Emma Watson clutching a robe around herself, Professor Karlsson, his face an unreadable mask.

The mess was flooded with harsh, unforgiving light. Captain Hansen stood at the front, his face grim. Eriksson and three other burly crewmen flanked him, hands resting on the compact truncheons at their hips.

Santali did a quick, unobtrusive count. Eleven crew, including Hansen and Eriksson. One short. The scientists: Karlsson, Emma, himself, X. Four. Matsuki Kenichi was absent.

“Everyone,” Captain Hansen began, his voice gravelly. “We have a serious situation. Professor Matsuki Kenichi… is missing.”

A thick, stunned silence swallowed the room.

“Last confirmed sighting was at 20:00. He cited seasickness and retired to his cabin. During a routine welfare check, his room was found empty. Personal effects present. Person absent. The ship has been thoroughly searched. No trace.”

Emma Watson brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with genuine horror. “My God… Did he… fall overboard?”

“Gangway and deck cameras show no activity,” Eriksson stated, his eyes methodically scanning each face. “And all lifeboats and rafts are accounted for.”

“Then where could he be?” Professor Karlsson spoke for the first time, his voice as cold as ice. “The ship is only so large.”

Captain Hansen was silent for a beat. “That is the question. Effective immediately, all personnel are restricted to designated zones. Scientists are confined to A-Deck mess, B-Deck living quarters, and Labs 1 and 2 on C-Deck. All other areas, including the main deck, are off-limits without explicit permission.”

“This is captivity!” X fired back instantly, her voice perfectly pitching into ‘Anna’s’ outraged academic shrill.

“This is a security protocol,” Hansen said coldly, his gaze boring into her. “Until Professor Matsuki is located, or… his status is conclusively determined.”

Santali watched the tableau. The crew was alert but not overly tense; Eriksson’s eyes scanned the scientists’ faces; Karlsson remained impassive; Emma was clearly terrified; X performed outrage…

And Captain Hansen—when he said “conclusively determined,” the corner of his mouth twitched, a minuscule, involuntary tic. What did he know? Did he suspect Matsuki’s disappearance wasn’t merely an accident?

“Additionally,” Eriksson added, “crew will be posted outside each cabin for security. Return to your quarters now. All research is suspended until further notice.”

As the group dispersed, Santali and X returned to B-Deck to find a crewman stationed outside each cabin—a guard under the guise of protection.

Before entering 207, Santali glanced at the young crewman outside 208. His posture was trained, his right hand hovering near the retention strap of his hip holster.

The door clicked shut, the signal jammer humming to life.

“Your assessment?” X’s voice was a low murmur.

“Matsuki Kenichi never left the ship.” Santali moved to the porthole, his reflection ghostly against the oppressive dark outside. “He was either in Lab 3—but you didn’t see him—or…”

“Or he wasthe man in Lab 3,” X finished. “But the age was wrong. The man I saw was around fifty. Matsuki’s file says forty-one. The face… similar, but worn differently.”

“Surgical alteration? Or…” Santali let the word hang, cold and heavy. “A replicate.”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet further.

“If the man in the lab is a replicate, where is the original?”

“Dead for years, perhaps. Or…” Santali recalled the contents of Crimson Tide’s notebook. “The ‘Mirror’project might not be cloning flesh alone. It could involve consciousness transfer. The man in the lab could be the recipient. The real Matsuki’s mind… might be in a jar somewhere.”

Outside, the moon vanished behind a shroud of cloud, plunging the sea into perfect void. The icebreaker’s groaning was unnaturally loud in the silence, a sound like the earth’s bones being ground to dust.

“We accelerate the timeline,” Santali turned, his profile sharp in the gloom. “Get ready to leave tomorrow. The situation is degrading faster than projected.”

“The primary landing point is two days out.”

“We don’t have two days.” Santali retrieved the hand-drawn map from a concealed false bottom in his luggage, spreading it on the table. “Here. Sixty nautical miles northeast. An abandoned Soviet meteorology station. If the ice holds, the ship can heave-to five miles out. We take a life raft, then proceed on foot or find transport from the station.”

X leaned in to study the map, a strand of her crimson hair brushing his wrist—it carried the scent of ship’s soap and something deeper, like frost on stone.

“Supplies at the station?”

“092A reported two snowmobiles and basic gear cached there. But that was three months ago.” Santali’s finger tapped the location. “The principal risk is we need to disembark without alerting the crew, then cross at least forty kilometers of ice field in minus twenty Celsius.”

“Still a preferable odds to remaining in this floating laboratory,” X straightened, her eyes catching the scant light like chips of volcanic glass. “Timeline?”

“Tomorrow night. The ship will pass through a dense ice floe zone. High noise, low visibility. It’s our best chance.” Santali folded the map. “The immediate problem is… our friends outside the door.”

A cold, razor-thin smile touched X’s lips. “ ‘Anna Petrova’ has an idea.”