The transport van rattled over the cracked concrete as it approached the north tower. Guards in faded uniforms stared at the graffiti‑covered walls, muttering about “the old stories.” Misha stared out the small, barred window. He could see the old workshop, its doors half‑collapsed, a skeleton of steel beams that once held a server farm.
Misha’s eyes watered. He felt a pressure in his temples, as if something was trying to crawl out of his skull. He remembered the guard’s warning: the file is hungry . He had to act fast. The transport van rattled over the cracked concrete