The Omega The Enemy Alpha Claimed

Chapter 10

Chapter 6: Threaded Lies

They stepped through automatic glass doors into a vast, echoing atrium bathed in soft artificial daylight from skylights high above. Escalators glided silently between polished marble floors and gleaming railings, ferrying crowds past two or three levels of storefronts. Brightly lit windows displayed everything from high-end fashion brands and electronics giants to quirky local boutiques and pharmacies. The air hummed with a mix of pop music from hidden speakers, the chatter of families and teenagers, and the distant clatter of food court trays.

Elena led the way, her chestnut braid swinging like a pendulum with each eager step. Her cheeks flushed pink from the brisk walk from school, and her fingers clutched the strap of her worn schoolbag as if it anchored her to reality.

“Look!” she exclaimed, her voice bright and melodic, cutting through the ambient murmur. She skidded to a halt, pointing upward with unrestrained delight. There, suspended high above the central escalators, glowed the illuminated marquee of the Cineplex: bold crimson letters announcing the latest blockbuster, Shadows of the Neva, a sweeping thriller that had captivated the city’s youth. “The movie theatre! We can still make the four-thirty show if we hurry. Come on, it’s got everything—mystery...”

She turned, expecting to see her friends’ faces mirror her excitement. Instead, Kira and Dasha exchanged a glance—a fleeting, conspiratorial flicker that spoke volumes without a single word. Kira’s lips curved into a half-smile, her sharp green eyes narrowing with that familiar mischief.

Dasha, ever the bold one with her sun-streaked blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail and a smattering of freckles across her nose, merely arched an eyebrow. The look passed between them like a secret current, invisible to outsiders but electric to anyone who knew them as well as Elena did.

Elena’s hand dropped slowly, her enthusiasm dimming like a stage light fading to blackout. She knew that look. “Don’t tell me we’re not going to watch a movie either!” Elena’s voice rose, laced with frustration and a hint of betrayal. “You already lied about the park!”

Kira shifted her weight, her fingers twisting the hem of her blouse. A flicker of guilt crossed her features, but it was quickly masked by her usual playful deflection.

Dasha, however, stepped forward, her posture straight and unyielding, the leader who always pulled them into adventures that teetered on the edge of chaos. “Elena, listen—” she began, but the words caught, as if the full weight of their plan suddenly felt too heavy to voice in the open air of the mall.

Elena’s eyes widened, searching their faces. “Umm, actually…” Kira started, her voice trailing into an awkward silence. She glanced at Dasha for rescue, cheeks coloring faintly.

Dasha exhaled, a soft laugh escaping her lips—not mocking, but warm, almost apologetic. She placed a gentle hand on Elena’s shoulder, her touch reassuring yet insistent. “We’re not here for the movie. We’re here for clothes. Nice clothes. And… to meet him. Our favorite celebrity. Egor Kreed himself. There’s an event which we are about to attend. He will be present. Our only chance to meet him! We don't want to go this way, right?” She gestured vaguely at their uniforms, the starched white collars suddenly feeling like badges of childhood they were desperate to shed.

Elena’s mouth opened, then closed. The celebrity part hit her like a plot twist in one of those films she loved—Egor Kreed. For months, they had whispered about him during lunch breaks, imagining what it would feel like to meet him in person.

But reality crashed in hard. “We don’t have money for that! Not even for popcorn, let alone outfits that would impress a star like him. Look at us—we’re in school uniforms, for heaven’s sake. Do you really want to meet him like this?”

Kira and Dasha looked at her, their expressions softening with that mix of affection and determination. “Come on, girl,” Dasha coaxed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that wrapped around Elena like a warm scarf. “You know you want this as much as we do. One good outfit, and we blend right in. No one notices three girls in designer chic. We’ll be unforgettable.”

“But what exactly are you going to do about clothes?” Elena pressed, her voice rising with incredulity. She glanced around, half-afraid someone might overhear their ridiculous scheme. “How are we going to buy some? Do you have enough money?”

Kira and Dasha shook their heads in unison, but their laughter bubbled up—light, carefree, as if the question itself were the punchline to a private joke. Dasha gestured subtly to Kira with a tilt of her chin, and the two linked arms with Elena, propelling her forward through the throng of shoppers toward the gleaming expanse of the luxury wing.

The branded clothing section unfolded before them like a treasure vault: racks of silk blouses shimmering under recessed lighting, mannequins draped in cashmere sweaters and tailored trousers that whispered of elegance and exclusivity. The air here carried a richer scent—subtle notes of sandalwood and vanilla from the diffusers hidden among the displays.

As they crossed the threshold, Elena’s eyes widened in quiet horror. Price tags dangled like accusations: 12,500 rubles for a simple midi dress in emerald silk, 28,000 for a tailored blazer that looked as though it had been sewn by angels. Hundreds here, thousands there—figures that danced in the thousands of rubles.

“These are… expensive,” Elena whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with awe and dread. “Even if we had some, all of our combined money wouldn't be enough to buy even a sleeve!”

“Exactly,” Dasha replied with a wink, her tone matter-of-fact, as if stating the obvious weather.

A saleswoman behind the polished oak counter—mid-thirties, impeccably coiffed in a black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse—lifted her gaze from her tablet. Seeing three schoolgirls, one of them in uniform, her expression shifted from professional courtesy to mild amusement tinged with skepticism.

Street girls playing dress-up, her eyes seemed to say. “What can I help you with today, ladies?” she asked, her voice smooth but edged with a condescending tone.

Dasha turned fully toward her, shoulders squared with the confidence of someone twice her age. “We want some nice clothes. Impress us with whatever you have—the best you’ve got.”

Kira leaned in, adding with a nod, “Yeah, nothing basic. We're not fit for it.”

Elena, caught between loyalty and panic, managed a hesitant smile. “Yeah, yeah… we’d accept nothing but…” She faltered, her words evaporating under the saleswoman’s scrutiny. The woman’s gaze traveled from their scuffed loafers to their neatly tucked blouses, clearly sizing them up as pranksters.

“Expensive,” Kira supplied smoothly.

“Classy,” Dasha included, her smile unwavering.

“And something… Elegant,” Elena finished, her voice small but trying.

The saleswoman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you have any money?” The question hung in the air, blunt and disbelieving.

Dasha laughed—a rich, bell-like sound that turned heads from nearby racks. “You’re asking about money?” She asked. Kira joined, giggling "To us?”