The hum of the A. Volkov changed from a rhythmic thrum to a high-pitched, harmonic whine that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of my bones. I stared at the ledger in my hands, the black leather feeling like scorched skin. The date on the final entry wasn't from the decades of history we had been chasing. It was dated tomorrow. April 8, 2026.
And the signature—my signature—wasn't a scrawl from a terrified girl in an attic. It was the sharp, authoritative stroke of the woman I had become in the last forty-eight hours.
"A loop?" Roman’s voice was a ragged whisper, a sound of a man watching the horizon dissolve into a void. He didn't look at his father. He looked at the book in my hands as if it were a mirror reflecting a monster he didn't recognize.
Aleksandr Volkov—the Ghost of the Ad
