Earl Knight as Store Clerk

After walking a few blocks, they came out onto a spacious square. There was a strange contrast: among the familiar American skyscrapers, monumental monuments towered, as if torn from another time and space. In the center of the square stood an impressive monument to Lenin, directing its stern gaze somewhere into the distance. At the edges stood bronze statues of Dzerzhinsky and other revolutionaries, and a little to the side stood an obelisk with the inscription "Glory to Labor".

"What kind of theater of the absurd is this?" Peter exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks. "We're in New York, aren't we?"

"It looks like someone decided to create their own little copy of Moscow here," snorted Jennings, looking at Dzerzhinsky's figure with distrust. "But I don't remember there being a cult of Soviet figures in the States."

Delia Asia Vieira frowned, lost in thought. She slowly walked up to the Glory to Labor obelisk and sat down at its base to rest.

"We've seen a lot of strange things, but this..." Delia Asia Vieira thought, her metal fingers tapping nervously on the granite plinth. "This is some kind of symbol. Someone left it here on purpose. Perhaps to confuse us."

"Maybe this is all part of some game to scare us or confuse us," Jennings suggested, lighting a cigarette. "But who and why?"

"It's not who, it's why," Peter interjected, looking from one monument to the other. "Perhaps it's a warning. Or a challenge."

Suddenly they saw a lone figure sitting at the foot of the Glory to Labor obelisk. The man was thin and bent, as if time had left deep marks on his body. His face, covered with wrinkles, seemed ancient, and his eyes were fixed on a single point on the ground in front of him.

Feeling their presence, he slowly raised his head. A faint smile appeared on the old man's face, but it was not friendly - rather, it was mysterious, like someone who knows too much to simply look at the world with indifference.

"Don't be afraid, my friends," he said in a hoarse voice. "I know what you are doing here."

Jennings became alert and took a step forward, trying to make out the old man's face in the shadow of the obelisk.

"Who are you?" he asked, clutching a small self-defense knife in his pocket.

The old man just shook his head slightly, as if it was a stupid question. He continued speaking, but his voice dropped to a whisper, as if he was speaking more to himself than to them.

"I know, I know..." he whispered, his gaze falling to the ground again, where a tiny hole in the ground lay, framed by a thin red scratch, as if it had been pierced by an invisible razor. "There is no land between them... No land between those who seek and those who hide."

Delia Asia Vieira leaned closer, trying to understand the meaning of his words.

"What are you talking about?" Her voice was even, but there was tension in it. "Who are you waiting for here? And what do you know about us?"

The old man raised his dim eyes to her, and a shadow of recognition flashed in them.

"Ah, child... You seek answers, but you will not like all of them," he suddenly burst into laughter, but the laughter was dry and joyless, like the rustle of old leaves. "You came here to seek the truth, but the truth, like this scratch, is hiding right under your feet."

"You're talking nonsense," Peter muttered, frowning in displeasure. "We're just trying to find a way out of this nightmare."

But the old man only laughed again, and this time his laughter echoed off the granite walls of the obelisk.

"Watch your feet, my children," he said, pointing to the hole in front of him. "Where there is no ground, the path to what you seek begins."

Delia Asia Vieira frowned and, following his instructions, walked closer, crouched down and peered at the red line surrounding the ground. It looked like a cut, but how it had appeared was unclear.

"What is this?" she muttered, touching the line with her finger.

"It's a rift," the old man replied, finally rising to his feet. His movements were slow but determined. "A rift between your illusions and reality."

Jennings, unable to bear it any longer, stepped forward and grabbed the old man by the collar.

"Enough riddles!" he shouted. "Tell me straight: who are you and what do you want from us?"

The old man only smiled sadly, his wrinkled face distorted with fatigue.

"I am the one who has always been here when someone tries to learn more than they should," he whispered. "But you have little time, my friends. This place... it is already beginning to consume you. If you wish to leave, you must make a choice. Right here and now."

Delia Asia Vieira, Peter and Jennings looked at each other. The decision they had to make suddenly seemed far more terrifying than all the strange things they had encountered along the way.

"What choice?" Delia Asia Vieira asked quietly, feeling the ground beneath her feet begin to shake.

The old man turned and, without looking back, walked away into the dark alley, leaving them alone with their questions.

"We have to leave, and quickly," Delia Asia Vieira said, looking around. "I don't know what he meant, but I don't like it."

"Then let's go," Jennings nodded, nudging Peter. "We've already lost too much time."

They left the square without looking back, feeling the air around them growing heavier.
Cars sped past, headlights flashing in the night, as Delia Asia Vieira, Jennings, and Peter Reynolds tried to cross a busy New York street. The streets were like a river, but there was something wrong with the chaos. With every step they took, they felt more and more like they were entering a strange space, where reality seemed to slip from its familiar framework.

"There's something wrong here," muttered Delia Asia Vieira, stopping in the middle of the road and looking around. "Look!"

She pointed ahead, and Peter and Jennings noticed something they hadn't noticed before. The moving cars seemed to vanish into thin air, and in an instant they were underwater. Bright fish swam around them, and they were surrounded by a blue, shimmering depth, as if the city had suddenly been submerged by the sea.