Through a series of doors in the building, like mysterious portals, there was a café. The place was intimate—only five tables, each surrounded by a halo of soft, muted light. The walls were draped in dark burgundy wallpaper with a barely noticeable Eastern pattern. The aroma of coffee filled the air.

"You know, Mark," the girl began when their coffee was brought in cardboard cups, "I’ve been following your publications about Moscow architecture. I was particularly interested in the series of articles about apartment buildings from the early 20th century." She took a folder with documents out of her leather bag. "Look at these photographs. They are pictures of basement spaces in several buildings in the center. Notice the markings on the walls." Mark took the photographs. Strange symbols were visible on the brickwork—geometric shapes and numbers that seemed like a message.

"Are these markings from construction crews?" he asked, trying to decipher their meaning.

"Not quite," Kismet shook her head. "I work in the archive of the construction department. Over the past year, we’ve discovered a whole system of such markings in buildings built between 1900 and 1910. They form a sort of map."

"A map of what?" Mark asked, not fully understanding what she meant but already sensing his interest turning into excitement.

"Presumably, a system of underground communications. But here’s what’s interesting—official plans from that period show a completely different layout of tunnels. Moreover," she pulled out another document, "look at the dates. The markings appeared before the official urban communication system was built."

Mark studied the papers closely, his thoughts swirling as he tried to piece together the scattered fragments of the puzzle. "And what do you think?" he asked, staring at the table cluttered with photographs and documents that seemed to breathe history.

"I believe that at the beginning of the century, there existed a parallel network of underground structures. Possibly a private initiative by merchant families or something related to industrial espionage. But the main thing is—some of these tunnels still exist. And they are actively used."

"And by whom?"

"That’s what we need to find out," Kismet lowered her voice. "In recent months, there have been increased instances of strange activity in these areas: movement at night, sounds of working machinery. Officially, no work is being done there. I have access to archives and building plans. You have journalistic connections and investigative experience. Together we could..."

"Uncover a city secret a century old?" Mark interrupted her with a smirk, but there was a clear excitement in his eyes.

"Exactly," she replied, as if ignoring his smirk, maintaining a serious tone.

Mark slowly took a sip from his cup, inhaling the aroma of the cooling coffee. His gaze unintentionally lingered on Kismet's graceful fingers, which lightly glided along the edge of her cup. A thin silver ring with an unusual pattern on her index finger glimmered in the warm light of the lamp hanging above their table. The story she was telling was captivating, but something about it troubled him, like a lingering shadow on a sunny day. Mark found himself mesmerized not only by the story, which hid ancient secrets beneath the Earth's surface waiting for their moment, but also by the storyteller herself—her graceful movements and the light scent of violet perfume. Something about her reminded him of the heroines in noir films—mysterious women who brought not only secrets but also inevitable doom into the lives of detectives.

"Let's say I agree," he said, trying to keep a professional tone. "Where do you suggest we start?"

Kismet, with a serene expression on her finely chiselled face, spread a large map of central Moscow on the table. Her dark hair, gathered in a careless bun, exposed her elegant neck, and Mark found it hard to concentrate on the map.

"Right here," she said, leaning closer to the map, causing her perfume to become more pronounced—there’s a building in the area of Maroseika. This is the oldest marking we’ve discovered. It’s in this area that strange activity occurs most often. I suggest we start here."

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Mark involuntarily leaned forward, examining the indicated place. Maroseika is one of the oldest districts in Moscow, where every cobblestone remembers hundreds of stories. A place where the past and present intertwine especially closely.

"What kind of activity?" Mark felt his interest intensifying, like a flame fanned by the wind. He took out his worn notepad with a leather cover—his faithful companion in all investigations.

"Local residents complain about noise at night," Kismet spoke quietly, as if afraid they might be overheard. "Trucks arrive after midnight, taking something out or bringing something in. When the police come—there’s no one there. Moreover, no official permits for night work have been issued."

Mark opened his notepad, and the worn leather cover creaked under his fingers as usual. Over the years of his journalistic work, these pages had absorbed dozens of stories—some turned out to be empty, others led to sensational revelations.

"And the building owners?" he asked, ready to record the information. His fountain pen hovered over the blank page like an arrow on a taut bowstring.

"An offshore company," Kismet replied, and a note of disappointment flickered in her voice. "I tried to trace it—the chain goes through three countries and ends in Cyprus."

"Classic," Mark smirked, feeling adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Yes, a classic money laundering scheme, but..." she paused meaningfully, "there’s something more interesting."

"What else?"

Kismet leaned even closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. Her long dangling earrings jingled softly.

"There’s a person, a former employee of the construction department. Mikhail Vorontsov. He worked there in the eighties, dealing with the reconstruction of basement spaces." She took a photograph out of her leather bag. "Here he is, third from the left. He says he can tell us a lot of interesting things, but only in person."

Mark studied the photo carefully: a group of workers in front of that very building, all in work clothes, smiling. The photo had yellowed with time, but the faces were clearly distinguishable.

"And where can we find him?" Mark made a note in his notepad, carefully writing down Vorontsov’s name.

"I already found out. He lives outside the city, in Pushkino. A small private house on the outskirts, almost by the forest." Kismet pulled out a slip of paper with the address. "I arranged a meeting for tomorrow. He agreed to see us, but only in the morning."

Mark leaned back in his chair, allowing the story to take shape in his mind, like a sculpture carved from marble. It was no longer just a tale; it was turning into a potential journalistic investigation.

"Okay," he finally said, looking intently into Kismet’s eyes. "I’m in. But let’s agree on this: no independent actions, we’ll act thoughtfully. I have enough experience to know that such stories can be dangerous."

"Of course," Kismet smiled, and her smile was like a promise. At that moment, a ray of the setting sun broke through the window, painting her profile in golden tones. "Shall we meet tomorrow at ten at Yaroslavsky Station?" She began to gather her things, carefully putting the documents into her handbag.

"Agreed." He stood up as well, putting the notepad into his inner pocket.

When they left the café, evening Moscow had already lit up its lights. As Kismet threw a dark blue coat over her shoulders, Mark turned to her: "By the way, why did you decide to come to me?"

Kismet hesitated for a moment, her gaze becoming thoughtful, like a cat watching a bird.

"Let’s say you’re not the only one following others’ publications. Your article from two years ago about underground casinos in historical buildings... You dug very deep back then. And the main thing—you brought it to completion."

Mark frowned. That story cost him several sleepless weeks and a couple of unmistakable warnings, but the result was worth it. Without replying, he took his phone out of his pocket. "Let me call you a taxi," he offered.

"Thank you, but I drove," she pointed to a nearby black BMW. "I can give you a ride."

Mark shook his head, "I’ll walk. I need to think, clear my head. The story you told... it needs contemplation."

"Tomorrow at ten," Kismet said, opening the car door. "And, Mark... take your camera with you. I think we’ll need it."

She got behind the wheel, and the car smoothly merged into the flow of vehicles, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts and growing anxiety. He took out a cigarette—a habit he couldn’t shake, especially in tense moments.

"See you tomorrow," he thought, pulling up the collar of his coat. Mark felt a mix of conflicting emotions wash over him. His professional instincts screamed danger, but something else, something deeper and more irrational, pulled him toward this mysterious woman and her story. Evening Moscow greeted him with a chilly March wind and a drizzling rain. Raindrops sparkled in the light of the street lamps, turning the city into a blurred watercolor. The next day promised to be the beginning of something unusual. And it wasn’t just about the mysterious building on Maroseika—Kismet’s image, her enigmatic smile, and deep gaze lingered in his mind all the way home.

As the night metro hummed and rumbled, carrying him home, and fragments of today’s conversation swirled in his head, forming a whimsical mosaic, his phone vibrated several times in his pocket. A message from an unknown number popped up as a notification on the screen and immediately vanished before he could read it. However, he wasn’t particularly concerned about not knowing its content. One thing he knew for sure: this story would either become his best material or... He preferred not to think about the second possibility.