Proletarian Fair

Mark came to himself again, and the feeling of returning was sharp, like an electric shock. At first, his consciousness was clouded, and he could not immediately understand what was happening. There was a ringing void in his head, and his body seemed not to have come to its senses yet, as if he had been pulled out of a deep quagmire and thrown into an unimaginably alien reality. Soon, realizing that he was sitting in a car, he began to look around, trying to figure out what was happening.

But the world around him remained unchanged. He was back in the same taxi he had been in not long ago. The taxi… Yes, that was it. He was in that black sedan, with a driver who had never spoken to him. He remembered how before that moment he had been in the house where he had met Jordan Thurlow, that strange, mysterious man who had said unimaginable things, his sinister sermon echoing in his mind like a heavy burden.

Mark looked around again, trying to notice anything that could explain his strange state, but he didn't find the slightest hint of change. Everything around was the same as before. The same road outside the window, the same night silence, the same cold light of street lamps that broke through the glass. Everything was so familiar, so serene - as if he had simply returned to the moment when the nightmare had not yet begun, and did not know what he was about to experience.

But the voice of Molly, his little daughter, was still in his head. It was so clear and close that it seemed as if she were sitting right next to him, in the seat next to him, whispering in his ear.

"Dad, I'm desperate," her voice sounded, and there was such hopelessness in it that Mark felt his heart squeeze. "They tried to kill Mom when she was on a walk in prison, and now they've made it clear that her fate depends only on your decision…"

Mark shuddered, as if a sharp pressure had been applied to his throat, and for a moment he lost his breath. His fingers tightened on his knees, and a wave of anxiety ran through his body again, as if some silent struggle were raging within his skin. Everything that was happening, the words he had just heard, seemed at once terrifyingly real and utterly absurd. He couldn't shake the feeling that his mind could no longer cope with this burden.

Mark glanced at the taxi driver, but he remained silent, his eyes focused on the road. The driver's silence only increased the feeling that he was in some kind of intermediate state - between reality and a nightmare that did not let him go, drawing him deeper and deeper. Outwardly, everything remained unchanged, but inside Mark felt that this reality was alien to him, like an alien world from a dream in which he could not wake up.

"Molly..." Mark suddenly blurted out, as if his daughter's name was connected with some painful weight that wouldn't let go of him.

The same phrase came back to him, as if Molly herself had said it, her voice full of despair: "Her life depends on your choice." But how was that possible? What could he do to change Harey's fate? How could his decisions affect her life when she was imprisoned, a place that was impossible to get into?

Anxiety washed over him again, like a wave squeezing his chest. His hands began to shake, and he felt the pressure inside him becoming unbearable, as if his body could no longer cope with this burden. He tried to pull himself together, but his thoughts continued to rage in his head, like a river that knew no shores. Every moment was threatening, but the path forward remained unclear. He did not know how to get out of this vicious circle, how to make the right choice when everything around him was dissolving into a fog that gave no support.

At that moment, his gaze fell on a building that caught his attention. He didn't think long - he asked the taxi driver to stop, paid, and, getting out of the car, looked around. At first, it didn't seem to him that there was anything unusual in the surroundings, but as soon as he turned towards the building, his gaze immediately caught on a figure that appeared from behind the columns at the entrance. It was Paul Buher.

The old man looked as usual: a little strange, as if his presence in this place was accidental, but he knew exactly how to remain unnoticed. He was bald, with a wrinkled face, and his light blue jacket was a little out of shape, as if it were hanging on him, but not quite right. His white bowler hat was slightly askew, and in his hand, as usual, was an old cane, which swung like a pendulum. He stood motionless, but moved steadily with his step, as if thinking about something, slightly moving his lips, as if talking to himself. At some point, a barely audible, almost childish melody escaped from these lips - strange and restless.

Mark felt the familiar tension again and glanced at Buher. The old man apparently noticed his gaze and quickly disappeared behind a column. This was habitual - he knew that Buher did not appear by chance, that he always appeared at the right moment, as if specially to observe.

But Mark didn't stop. He didn't allow himself to be distracted and, with a firm gait, headed towards the entrance of the building, trying not to think about the old man and to concentrate on what lay ahead.

As soon as he stepped into the lobby, his gaze fell on the reception desk, where a young administrator sat. He was wearing a formal vest, white shirt and tie, which gave his image excessive formality. His face remained neutral, only a slightly raised eyebrow indicated that he had noticed the visitor. In general, his gaze was cold and indifferent, as if he was just another client, unremarkable in any way.

"Is the owner there?" Mark asked in a firm and decisive voice.

The manager glanced at him, and without looking away, slowly shrugged. It was so indifferent that Mark couldn't tell if it was even a form of response. The silence that followed the gesture seemed strangely empty, as if he not only didn't know where the owner was, but didn't feel the need to explain it to the visitor. His silence felt like more than just indifference-it was a barrier, as if Mark meant absolutely nothing in this place.