Igor Petrovich looked at the wall clock.
The second hand moved steadily across the dial, making an almost inaudible ticking sound. There were still forty-seven hours until the next meeting, but he no longer needed that much time. Draft papers lay scattered across the workbench, densely covered with formulas, charts, and hasty Russian annotations. The contradictions in the data, circled in red pen, were like vigilant eyes staring at the room filled with metal parts and old books.
He rubbed his aching eyes. Dawn had already begun to pale the sky outside. The small town was still asleep, but his mind was exceptionally clear—those metal parameters, phase-transition curves, and interface-bonding models kept colliding in his head like rats trapped in a maze, frantically searching for a way out.
The pocket watch lay quietly in its leather case, an exquisite creation of the past.
And the rough formulas on the table might lead to a future he had never imagined.
He needed to make a choice, but first, he needed answers to those questions—not only about metal, but about the person asking them.
Three days later, at exactly ten in the morning.
The brass bell rang again in the café of the small town near the Czech border.
When Igor pushed open the door, Wolf was already seated in his usual spot by the window. Two cups of coffee sat on the table, steam curling through the cold morning air. Wolf wore an ordinary gray jacket today and looked like an ordinary business traveler, but Igor noticed the subtle change in his posture—his body was turned slightly toward the door, and his right hand remained poised to reach his waist quickly.
"Punctual," Wolf said in Russian.
"I hate being late." Igor sat across from him and placed the kraft-paper bag in