When the clock struck midnight, Kismet was the first to break the silence: "That's enough for today. Tomorrow is an important day, and we both need to rest."

Mark nodded, suddenly feeling an overwhelming fatigue. The last few days had flown by like a high-speed train, and now that they had stopped, he felt as if he had been thrown onto the platform of reality.

They silently gathered the scattered documents from the table. Kismet neatly placed everything into her unchanging black leather bag, and Mark realized that he had gotten used to this gesture of hers over the past few days—methodical, almost ritualistic.

They left the building together. The night air was cool and fresh, filled with the scent of recently fallen rain.

"See you tomorrow," Kismet said as they reached the intersection where their paths diverged. The streetlight cast an odd angle of light on her face, creating a whimsical play of shadows. "Let's meet here at six in the evening. And, Mark..." she paused for a moment, which was unlike her usual confidence, "thank you. For all of this."

Her hand lightly touched his shoulder—a fleeting touch that could have been accidental, but might have meant much more. Before Mark could respond, Kismet melted into the night like a ghost, leaving behind only the faint scent of the elusive pre-storm air. Everything that had happened felt unreal, like one of those thrilling stories he was used to writing, but never thought he would find himself at the center of such events.

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Left alone, Mark slowly trudged home, feeling a strange sensation inside. The city around him lived its usual night life: traffic lights blinked, cars roared, their headlights cutting through the darkness like beams from a lighthouse, and somewhere in the distance, music played, drifting in fragments of melody.

Once in his apartment, he immediately sat down at his computer, opening a blank document. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Usually, words came easily—years of working as a journalist had taught him to quickly articulate his thoughts. But now his mind was a chaos.

What was he doing? What had he gotten himself into? Just that morning, he had been an ordinary journalist, whose biggest adventure was trying to secure an exclusive interview. And now he was preparing to sneak into a closed ball to... to what? Steal an ancient relic? Uncover a secret that could change the world? Save the world?

And Kismet... Who was she? Why had she appeared now? Why had she chosen him? Her face flashed in his memory, the way she spoke about the medallion—with such passion, with such knowledge. There was something inexplicably alluring about her, something that made it impossible to dismiss this whole story as someone’s silly joke.

He approached the window. The city below sparkled with lights, like a scattering of gemstones on the black velvet of night. Somewhere among those lights was she. Was she preparing for tomorrow just like he was? Or perhaps meeting with mysterious people about whom she had told him nothing?

Mark sighed, feeling the weight of fatigue and doubt pressing down on him. Tomorrow... Tomorrow everything would change.

With these thoughts, he lay down in bed. Sleep did not come easily, and when it finally did, it brought strange visions: ballrooms where dancers twirled to silent music, labyrinths of mirrors reflecting thousands of Kismet's faces, and ancient maps coming to life under her fingers.