1. MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE
I
t all begins in a small town. In an ordinary apartment block, in an ordinary flat, lives an ordinary boy who goes to an ordinary school. Peek through his window and you’ll find a classic game den: posters on the walls, peripherals on the desk, a computer that isn’t quite up to streaming standards but is entirely his own. And on the bed, with only a dark tuft of hair sticking out from under the blanket, lies our dedicated gamer. Dead to the world. Dreaming of something very good.
“Sweetie, time for breakfast! You need to get to school soon!” comes a voice from the kitchen.
The boy doesn’t stir.
Two minutes later the door swings open. In walks his mom — a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, tall, wearing a white medical coat. She crosses to the window and yanks the curtains apart. Bright autumn light floods the room.
“Mom, what are you doing!” Dmytro groans, burying his face in the pillow. “I was having such a good dream…”
“Up late again?” She folds her arms. “Drop that YouTube already. Think about school — exams are coming.”
“I’ll quit as soon as I get enough subscribers and become famous,” he answers with complete sincerity.
His mom shakes her head and walks out.
Dmytro sits up. Lanky, in blue pajama bottoms, red-eyed and thoroughly disheveled — he has the look of someone woken at least several hours too early. He changes into a white shirt and black trousers, shuffles to the bathroom, and stares at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment while the tap water goes cold. Then he washes his face, brushes his teeth, and comes out.
In the kitchen, fried eggs with bacon and a mug of hot tea are already waiting. Across the table sits his dad — a man of about forty, stubbled and dark-haired, in a police uniform — reading a newspaper without looking up.
Mom comes over, kisses them each on the cheek, and disappears out the door — off to work.
“Finish up,” says his dad, folding the paper. “I’ll drive you.” “One second,” Dmytro answers, mouth already full.
He downs the eggs, chases them with toast, washes them all back with tea that’s hot as lava, jumps up and dashes to his room for his jacket. A minute later they’re both at the front door, pulling on shoes. Outside its cool, yellow leaves everywhere — autumn. His dad clicks the key fob, the car chirps in reply, and they get in and pull away.
“So, how’s school? Everything alright?” his dad asks, eyes on the road.
“Seems fine.”
“You’ve got Bogdan and Sasha — that’s good. But it wouldn’t hurt to meet some new people.”
“We’ll see,” Dmytro replies vaguely, turning to the window.
They drive the rest of the way in silence. Ten minutes later the school building comes into view.
“No bad grades,” his dad says as Dmytro reaches for the door handle. “And make some friends. It’s not as hard as you think.”
“Alright, Dad. See you.”
He closes the door and walks slowly toward the school. Late autumn flowers still bloom along the path. At the entrance, his friends are already waiting fair-haired Bogdan and darkhaired Sasha, both in school uniforms with dark jackets over the top. Dmytro walks up and they exchange their signature greeting — fist bump to fist bump.
“So how were the holidays?” Sasha starts. “My old man shipped me off to the States for the whole summer. Language camp.”
“I started a YouTube channel,” Dmytro offers.
“Lucky both of you,” sighs Bogdan. “I was stuck in the village. Awful, man. No signal, nothing. My grandparents have a fridge, a radio, and one busted old TV.”
“What did you even do with yourself?”
“Helped around the house. Listened to the radio when I had a free minute. They’ve got a whole library too — I had to read half of it just to keep from dying of boredom.”
The bell rang. Everyone poured toward their classrooms. The three of them headed up to the second floor and pushed open the door of room 209. Most of the students were already seated, waiting for the teacher.
“Not many of us left,” Dmytro said, glancing around. “Just a handful from all the classes combined.”
“There are some good-looking girls though,” Bogdan noted.
“That one’s caught my eye.” Dmytro nodded toward a studious-looking girl in glasses in the front row.
“Perfect for you,” smiled Sasha.
The teacher walked in — a middle-aged woman with plain dark hair, glasses, and the brisk manner of someone used to being in charge.
“Boys, why are you still standing? Sit down.”
“Look, our favorite desk at the back is free!” Dmytro whispered to Bogdan.
“Let’s go. I’ve got chips. Salty ones.” Bogdan patted his backpack.
They claimed their usual territory at the back of the room. Sasha ended up sitting next to the girl in glasses. The lesson began.
“Well then, children, welcome to the new school year,” the teacher said, stepping to the middle of the room. “My name is Nadia Rostislavivna and I’m your homeroom teacher. Let’s start by getting to know each other. First row, please,” — she gestured toward the window — “just your name, your interests, and your dream.”
“My name is Julia. I love drawing — I draw all the time. I want to become an artist.”
“My name is Daniel. I’m an athlete — football, running, all of it. I want to become a famous sportsman.”
And so it went, minute after minute. Finally, it was Sasha’s turn.
“My name is Alex. I’m a film fanatic. I dream of acting in movies.”
“My name is Kathrine. I love the natural sciences. I want to work in nature conservation.”
“And my name is Bogdan,” — he rose with the gravest possible expression — “and I am a GENIUS, PLAYBOY, BILLIONAIRE, PHILANTHROPIST!”
The class erupted. They laughed loudly, helplessly, unstoppably — until the teacher’s voice cut through the noise:
“Quiet, children, please!”
The wave slowly subsided.
“My name is Dmytro,” our hero continued. “I’m a future programmer. And I dream of going to Disneyland in Paris.”
“Those are wonderful dreams, children,” said Nadia Rostislavivna, and for the first time that morning something warm crept into her voice. “Alright then, you may carry on.”
Ten minutes later the bell rang and the classroom emptied in seconds. Several more lessons blurred past in one grey stream. At half past two, in the history classroom, Svitlana Mykolaivna — a woman with the steady gaze of someone long accustomed to not being listened to — set the register on her desk and surveyed the class.
“Children, who remembers what events we stopped at last time?”
“Something about Lenin, I think,” offered Bogdan.
“Correct. We were talking about communism in Ukraine and more broadly. Communism lasted a long time and spread across several countries, forming the USSR. This year we’ll finish the modern period and move into the contemporary era — the First and Second World Wars.”
“Do you know what USSR stands for?” Sasha called out.
“Stalin’s Unstoppable Soviet Rampage.”
The class dissolved into laughter — and at precisely that moment the bell rang.
“Alright, children, lesson’s over. Read paragraphs one and two at home.”
Everyone packed up and filed out. The three friends lingered in the corridor.
“Finally, those tortures are over,” Bogdan exhaled. “I nearly fell asleep right there at my desk.”
“History’s actually interesting,” Dmytro said thoughtfully.
“But today was unbearably dull.”
“Agreed. Listen — want to come to mine and play some console games? I saved up money over the summer helping around the house.”
“Seriously?” Dmytro raised an eyebrow. “Then let’s go.”
They headed down the stairs together — and that’s when the unwelcome surprise arrived. By the school exit, leaning against the window, stood a heavyset older student. Arms crossed, expression somewhere between bored and predatory — the look of someone who considers everything around him his by right. “Guys, do you know who that is?” Sasha said quietly, barely moving his lips. They stopped about a hundred meters away. “That’s Vitya-Borziy. A nasty senior who shakes down younger kids for money. His parents are big shots. There’s security here, so he probably won’t touch us. We turn around and go out the other exit.”
But Vitya was already looking straight at them.
“Hey — you! Where do you think you’re going?!”
“Home,” Dmytro answered as casually as he could manage.
“The exit is right here,” Vitya jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “And the exit costs money while lessons are on. Why are you skipping class, you little brats?” There was open contempt in his voice.
“We were going to ask you the same thing,” Bogdan shot back.
“Anyway, we’re leaving.”
They turned toward the main entrance — and then two figures appeared from the far end of the corridor. They moved fast, cutting the boys off: one grabbed Dmytro by the arm, the other blocked Bogdan and Sasha, and together they hauled all three back to Vitya.
“Hey, Vitya-Borziy!” they greeted him in unison.
Twins. Both tall, dark-haired, dressed in identical dark blue trousers, jackets, and even identical shoes. Igor and Vasyl.
“So,” said Vitya, folding his arms again, “you didn’t pay for the exit, and you were making a run for it. That’s not good.”
“We weren’t running anywhere,” Bogdan said flatly. “We’re just leaving school. Like we always do.”
“You have always had to pay!” Vitya’s voice rose sharply.
“Boys — hold them!”
At his post by the door, the security guard slept the sleep of the righteous.
And so, the boys ran.
They vaulted the turnstile, blew through the doors like a rocket, thundered down the front steps, and sprinted across the school yard. The twins gave chase. The boys twisted and doubled back between the trees, trying to shake their pursuers.
“The basement — come on!” Dmytro shouted.
They ducked into a dark passage and pressed themselves against the wall, barely breathing. Above them, heavy footsteps echoed — then gradually faded, swallowed up by the quiet of the autumn afternoon.
But one week before any of this, something else was unfolding — far away, on the other side of the world.
Prologue. One Week Earlier. Google Headquarters, California.
The Google campus gleamed in the California sun — an enormous building, all glass and steel, its logo mounted high on the facade. Beside it, suspended in a cradle several floors up, a window cleaner in a blue uniform moved his squeegee in slow, methodical arcs.
Down below, a black van sat parked at the kerb. Inside, it was a completely different world. A wiry man in a black hoodie with the hood pulled up hunched over a laptop, its glow catching the sharp angles of his face. Beside him sat a stocky man in a black suit, dark-haired, with the patient, practical air of someone accustomed to working with his hands. And in the back, grinning at nothing in particular and polishing a pistol with a cloth, sat a third — a gold tooth catching the light every time he smiled, which was often.
They looked, collectively, like people planning either a robbery or an explosion. This was not far from the truth. All three were former convicts. All three were hired for exactly the kind of work that doesn’t appear on any CV.
“Alright, listen up.” The man at the laptop turned the screen toward the others, showing a building schematic. “You see this entrance — the back one. That’s your way in. The two of you get inside, find the server room. Stairs are a bit further along.” He tapped the screen. “There’ll be up to ten guards somewhere in there, so you deal with them.” He looked at the man with the pistol.
“The plan’s not bad,” the weapons specialist said, tilting his head. “We knock out the main power, leave only the backup running. All the security rushes toward us and we’re finished.”
“Exactly. Except you won’t be finished — you’ll be crawling out through the ventilation shaft.”
“Clear enough,” said the locksmith, cracking his knuckles.
“Everyone ready? Then we start.” The man at the laptop rubbed his palms together, stretched his fingers, and went back to clicking.
They opened the van doors, climbed out, closed them quietly, and moved toward the back of the building.
“Hey.” The locksmith’s voice came low over the radio clipped to his chest pocket. “I’m a locksmith, not a camera hacker. There are cameras all over this place and right now every single one of them is burning us.”
“Already handled.” A rapid sequence of keystrokes. “Cameras are going dark.” And one by one, the little red indicator lights blinked out.
“Much better,” said the weapons specialist. “Those doors — let’s go.”
They reached the back entrance and stopped. The weapons specialist tried the handle. Locked.
“See this electronic panel?” The locksmith pointed to a grey box mounted to the left of the doors. “I’ll have a word with it.
Give me a moment.”
He pried the panel open, studied its innards briefly, found the red wire, and cut it. The lock disengaged with a soft click. They pulled the doors open and stepped into a dark hallway.
“Where’s the light switch?” the weapons specialist muttered, taking a few steps forward — and the lights came on by themselves.
He stopped and looked around.
“Motion sensors, you idiot,” the locksmith said under his breath. “Never seen one before?”
They moved down the corridor until they reached the next set of doors.
“Same lock again,” the locksmith observed. “Facial scanner too, this time.”
He went to work on the panel. The doors opened — and a
security guard was standing on the other side.
“Oh, hell,” the locksmith said quietly.
“Unauthorized personnel in Building B,” the guard said into his radio, already raising his weapon. “Hands up. Step away from the door.”
“Assistance on the road,” crackled the radio.
“Oh, that’s just great,” muttered the weapons specialist — and then he threw himself headfirst at the guard’s stomach.
They went down together in a tangle of arms and boots. The gun skidded away down the hallway. While they wrestled on the floor, the locksmith crouched at the panel and kept working. The weapons specialist finally got the upper hand, grabbed the guard by the collar, and shoved his face against the biometric scanner. The doors clicked open.
“Appreciate the help,” the weapons specialist said, stepping over the guard. “Stay down. Let’s go.”
Inside, the server room hummed with the sound of a hundred cooling fans, rows of blinking panels stretching back into the dark.
“What exactly are we looking for?”
“A panel with a large switch. Two of them, actually.” The locksmith swept his flashlight across the room. “Block those doors with something and give me a couple of minutes.”
The weapons specialist spotted a large grey cabinet near the entrance, gripped it, and hauled it over. It landed across the doorway with a satisfying crash.
“That should hold them.”
“Found it.” The locksmith was already at the panel, examining two large switches side by side. “We pull both at once. Ready?
One, two, three — pull.” They pulled.
Every light in the building went out. A moment later, dim emergency lighting flickered on, casting long red shadows across the servers.
“Now — out of here.” The weapons specialist pointed his flashlight at the ventilation grate in the wall. “Get it open.”
They began prying at the grate. From beyond the barricaded doors came the sound of voices, then fists, then something heavier being used as a battering ram. By the time the door gave way, the grate was off and both men were already inside the shaft, pulling it shut behind them. The guards swept their torches across the empty room. One of them noticed the ventilation opening and called his partner. They climbed in.
“Do you actually know where this leads?” the weapons specialist asked, crawling forward in the dark.
“Of course. Outside. To the van.” “You’d better be right.”
They crawled. And argued.
“Did you — was that you? What on earth did you eat before this mission?”
“Stop whining. Keep moving.”
Behind them, they could hear the guards. Getting closer.
“We’ve got company,” the weapons specialist said. “What now?”
“The shaft splits ahead. You take one branch; I’ll take the other. Wait.”
They split up and went still. When the guards reached the fork and hesitated, both men struck simultaneously — one knock to each head. Two thuds. Silence.
“Now move!”
“It’s not far — crawl faster.”
“You keep saying not far. Which tunnel is it?”
A pause.
“I… forgot. I didn’t bring the map.” The locksmith reached for his radio. “We’re stuck in the ventilation. Need a few minutes.”
“Don’t worry about it,” came the reply from the van. “You’ve done your part. The man upstairs will handle the rest now.” A brief pause. “Harry — or whatever your name is — has the director left his office?”
Up on the side of the building, still suspended in his cradle, the window cleaner pressed his earpiece.
“Yes, but he won’t be gone long. Ten minutes, maybe. What am I grabbing again?”
“Access codes from his computer — on a flash drive. And a device that looks like a chip.”
“Got it.”
Harry reached into his cleaning kit and produced something that looked nothing like a squeegee — a large suction cup with a metal stylus attached. He pressed it to the glass, traced a careful circle, and pulled. A neat disc of window came away in his hand. He reached through the hole, found the latch, and swung the window open.
He stepped inside.
The office was enormous — white walls, white furniture, tall cabinets lined with books, and a large aquarium in the corner where goldfish drifted in unhurried circles. The desk was long and pale, crowded with two wide monitors, a document tray, a computer tower, and the accumulated clutter of someone who spent too much time at work. Harry found a key on the desk, locked the door with it, and settled into the black rolling chair.
“Alright, Harry,” he murmured to himself, pulling a flash drive from his pocket and plugging it into the tower. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The login screen appeared. He reached for his radio.
“There’s a password.”
“Expected that. Try the obvious one first — YouTube’s founding date.”
“Fourteen, zero two, two thousand five.” A pause. “No good.”
“I’ve got two more combinations.”
What followed was a patient, methodical process — the kind that requires a certain temperament. In the ventilation shafts below, meanwhile, the locksmith and the weapons specialist continued their own patient, methodical process of going in circles.
“How do you forget a ventilation map? My knees are destroyed.”
“Next time I’ll photograph it on my phone.”
“Your sarcasm is really helping. This is the third time we’ve passed the same junction.”
“The middle tunnel. It has to be the middle one. I just can’t explain why we keep ending up back here.”
Eventually — by some combination of logic and luck — they found the right tunnel and reached the exit grate. And stopped.
“Bad news,” said the voice from the van. “There’s a welcoming party at the other end. Sit tight. I’m thinking.”
In the office, Harry’s own situation was deteriorating.
“Boss, someone’s breaking down the door. I’m a bit scared.”
“Don’t be. I’m coming.”
The man in the hoodie climbed out of the van and walked calmly to the main entrance. The lobby was nearly empty. He called the elevator, sent it up empty, and took the next one himself. Upstairs, the guards heard the first elevator arrive and gather around it. When the doors slid open, they were greeted with a smoke grenade and a canister of tear gas.
The corridor filled rapidly with grey haze and the sound of coughing.
On the other side of the floor, the second elevator opened without fear. The man in the hoodie stepped out, walked to the office door, and knocked twice.
“That was fast,” Harry said, letting him in. “The last password worked, but I couldn’t figure out what to grab or where.”
“Lock the door. I’ll be quick.”
He sat at the desk, navigated through the file system with practiced speed, found the access codes, and copied them to the flash drive. Then he reached under the monitor and produced a small device — flat, dark, the size of a thumbnail.
“The chip was right here.” He held it up briefly, then pocketed it. He pulled a second flash drive from his jacket — large and black — and inserted it into the other USB port. “A small virus. Not dramatic, but very effective. Their admin is going to have an interesting fortnight.” He allowed himself to laugh, then kept clicking. “One more minute.”
The door shuddered. Someone was using something heavy against it from the outside.
“Time to go. Elevator — now.”
They ran. They reached the elevator, jabbed the button for the ground floor, and waited. Nothing happened. The panel was dead. Behind them, the office door gave way.
“It’s not moving,” Harry said. “Must have short-circuited when the power went out.”
Guards fanned into the corridor, flashlight beams swinging toward them.
With nowhere left to go, both men began jumping on the elevator floor — once, twice, three times — and then, with a lurch and a groan of cables, the elevator dropped.
Back to School. 3:30 p.m.
Down in the school basement, the three boys had been sitting in the dark for what felt like a very long time.
“Guys, look at the time,” Dmytro said. “They’ve been up there a while. So have we.”
“I’d rather not get beaten up today,” Bogdan said.
“Then let’s go,” said Sasha. “At this rate we won’t even make it to the console.”
They crept toward the exit — and found Igor and Vasyl waiting for them.
“Stop.” Igor’s voice was flat. “Did you really think hiding would work? Hand over the cash and go.”
They ran again. Out of the school yard, across the street, into someone’s courtyard — and straight into Vitya-Borziy. The twins closed in from behind. Between the three of them, they lifted the boys off the ground — one with their legs, one with the shoulders — and shook. From Sasha’s pockets fell a few crumpled bills and some loose change. Vitya pocketed everything without looking at it.
“I hope that’s a lesson,” he said pleasantly. “Don’t run. And next time, remember —” he gestured at the twins — “gold medalists in the hundred metres, both of them.”
They dropped the boys on the ground, added a kick each for good measure, and walked away.
The three of them lay still for a moment.
“I have never,” Dmytro said slowly, staring at the sky, “seen anyone move like that.” He tried to sit up and winced. “God willing, we never see them again.”
“There’s no escaping them,” Sasha said. “And complaining to the headmistress is pointless — she’s scared of them herself. Or more precisely, she’s scared of Vitya’s father.”
“This year and next year are going to be a nightmare,” Bogdan groaned. “Why don’t they just expel them?”
“Forget it. Come on — up we get. Pizza at mine.”
They hauled themselves upright, brushed the dirt from their clothes, and followed Sasha. Ten minutes of walking took them to a tall residential building. Sasha’s flat was on the twentieth floor. He unlocked the door, and within minutes they were inside.
“Mom, I’m home! I brought friends — we’re going to play some games.”
A slim, fair-haired woman appeared from the kitchen, still wearing her apron.
“Hello, boys. Play as much as you like, but by nine o’clock you head home, agree? Are you hungry?”
“We were thinking pizza,” Sasha said, “but if you’ve already made something…”
She had. They washed their hands, went to the kitchen, and ate. Then they played.
The evening passed the way good evenings do — quickly and without anyone noticing. When they finally began pulling on their jackets, there was a mild collective reluctance.
“Thanks, guys,” Sasha said from the doorway. “Let’s do this again.”
“Definitely. See you.” Dmytro was already in the hallway. “Take care.”
“See you.” Bogdan shook hands with both of them, and he and Dmytro rode the elevator down together. Outside, in the cool night air, Bogdan turned to him. “My mom’s just finishing work — she can drop you off if you want.”
“Sure, why not.”
They waited by the building entrance. A red car pulled up, and Bogdan’s mother leaned out of the window.
“Get in, boys. I’ll take you.”
They drove through the city in comfortable quiet, watching the streetlights slide past. Fifteen minutes later, give or take a few traffic lights, the car stopped in front of Dmytro’s building. “This is you.” Bogdan reached over and shook his hand.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. Thanks for the lift.”
“Anytime,” said his mom. “Get home safe.”
Dmytro climbed out, the car pulled away, and he walked down the familiar path to his building, took the lift up, and went home.
“Where have you been?” His mom appeared in the hallway. “You really were at Sasha’s? His mom called.”
“Yeah, that’s right. No classes today anyway — it’s September First.” He yawned. “I’m going to bed, I think.”
He went to his room, changed, and sat down at his computer.
“Channel stats,” he muttered, clicking through to the dashboard. “Nothing. Right.” He picked up his phone. “Let’s see if anyone wrote anything.” He scrolled. “No one. As usual.”
He put the phone down, turned on a game, started a stream, and played for an hour into the quiet of the late evening — talking to a viewership of mostly zero, with the easy contentment of someone who hasn’t yet decided to be discouraged.
“Good night, everyone! Thanks to whoever was watching.” He ended the stream, closed the game, shut down the computer, and pushed back his chair. “Bed.” His phone vibrated.
The screen lit up. A message from an unknown number:
Hello Dmytro. I’m an administrator at YouTube. I’d like to offer some help with your channel.
