The campfire crackles as if mocking the cold. Daytona watches the sparks rise, vanish into the dark canopy of the Green Hell. Martin snores softly, still clutching the Book of Archangels — he fell asleep trying to decipher Metatron's symbol. Saravia turns to her side, murmuring something that sounds like a prayer. Only Daytona remains still, chin resting on her knees, eyes burning toward Ghost.
He stands like a statue. Only his eyes move, slicing through the dark. Daytona speaks first, her voice hoarse:
— Ghost… why do you know these things? Why are you still here?
Ghost doesn't laugh, but his chest shifts as if holding back a strangled chuckle. He crouches, tosses a dry branch into the fire.
— I'm just someone who knows where not to go back to. — He lifts his gaze, the flame's reflection dancing in his pupils. — And now, I'm here to remind you to keep looking forward.
Daytona feels the leather of the cloak she found days ago brush against her fingers. It's heavy, smelling of earth and dried blood. Ever since she put it on, Beelzebub seems to speak to her more often — a lazy whisper trickling through her veins.
She watches as Ghost unfolds a map between the logs. It's thick, old, its tears patched with duct tape. The outline of Kazakhstan glows in the firelight, a red pen stroke marking a lonely point among mountains.
Ghost points, his bony finger tapping the paper. — Here. A bunker. Built during the Cold War. Later, someone used this concrete tomb to play God. Took fragments of demonic flesh. Tried to fuse them with human DNA, with cybernetic engineering. Something was born that no one could control anymore. A masterless guardian.
Daytona bites her lip. — And this book… does it say how to open Paradise?
Ghost nods slowly. — Not just how to open it — but how to survive inside. The rules are different. If you step into Heaven carrying Beelzebub's Gluttony… — He glances sideways, searching for something in the darkness beyond the fire. — There's going to be a price.
A cold breeze sweeps through the forest. Daytona feels Beelzebub stretch inside her mind, lazy as a cat waking.
"Do you really want this, Daytona?" — his voice low, brushing the back of her skull. "You have no idea what Paradise does to sinners like us…"
She closes her eyes. Her pulse climbs up her neck. A memory of her dead parents flickers in the dark — the car flipping over, the smell of gasoline. A flash. A circle of candles. A pact.
She opens her eyes, firm. — I don't have a choice.
Ghost studies her for seconds that feel like hours. Then, he extends something. Daytona sees it's a silver bullet inside a tiny glass vial.
— If the Guardian of the bunker touches you, shoot this into your own head — Ghost speaks as if reciting a household instruction. — It'll get you out of here before it tears your mind into ribbons.
She turns the vial in her fingers. — Is this poison?
— It's an emergency key. — He smiles, but his eyes are dead with fatigue. — I told you there'd be no way back, Daytona. But sometimes… there are exit doors.
Martin groans from the other side, half awake. — What are you talking about over there…?
Daytona hides the vial in her pocket, ruffling his hair like an older sister. — Sleep, Martin. You'll need a bit more dreaming before what's coming.
Ghost rises. The wind shakes his tattered jacket. — We leave at dawn. No ship this time. A freighter will drop us in Murmansk, then we head overland to the border. After that — snow. And silence. — He looks at Saravia, who now opens one lazy eye. — And monsters that don't nap like we do.
Saravia smirks, a crooked smile. — Monsters are my favorite part.
Daytona smiles back, but her chest burns. She hears Beelzebub yawn, satisfied:
"If you're going to fall, let it be upward, Hallara Daytona…"
When Ghost slips into the forest to patrol the perimeter, Daytona remains alone with the crackle of the fire. The map open on her lap. The heavy glass vial in her pocket. And the weight of a promise that neither Heaven nor anyone else seems able to undo.
Above, the moon slips between clouds. Cold, indifferent. Daytona clenches her fist, repeating to herself, silently: I will open Paradise. And I will bring you back.
The wind howls like a starving beast as the freighter docks in the frozen port of Murmansk. The lead-gray sea crashes against the docks, spraying droplets that freeze almost before touching the wood. Daytona is the first to jump off. Her black cloak whips behind her, the smell of salt and rust soaked into the fabric. Saravia lands right after — the anchor strapped to her back groans with metal strain. Martin tries to look tough while watching, but the wind shreds his courage with every gust. Ghost lights a cigarette, indifferent to the cold biting his fingers.
— Welcome to the North, he mutters, releasing a cloud of smoke that vanishes into the fog.
Beelzebub murmurs in Daytona's mind, voice slower than the wind: "You weren't born for ice, Daytona… but this is where monsters hibernate."
She ignores the comment. Pulls her scarf up over her face. The group crosses the port, passing abandoned containers, rusted barrels, crates marked with faded military symbols. A Ural truck waits beyond the gate, engine rumbling low. A man with his face hidden inside a hood signals. Ghost lifts his chin — all set.
— From Murmansk to the Russia-Kazakh border — three days, says Ghost, slapping the truck's side as if waking a beast. — If we don't stop, if we don't get stuck in customs, if nobody dies along the way…
Martin swallows hard. — Trying to comfort me?
— Trying to be optimistic, Ghost replies, tossing his bag into the bed.
Inside the truck, the engine coughs, groans, but obeys. Daytona squeezes between Saravia and Martin. The smell of grease and wet leather battles the frozen breath slipping through the cracks. Saravia rests the anchor on the floor like a cane. Martin stares out the tiny rear window, trying to see past the curtain of snow.
Time crawls. Each kilometer swallowed by the endless tundra. At night, they take turns staying awake — Daytona closes her eyes but never truly sleeps. In her mind, Beelzebub tests her patience:
"Do you know what we'll find there? The Guardian doesn't dream. Doesn't sleep. And hates everything that breathes."
"And you like that?" Daytona asks silently.
"I like seeing what you do when fear hits."
She sighs, opens her eyes, finds Saravia leaning on her shoulder — sleeping open-mouthed, with a faint snore. Daytona smiles. Closes her eyes again for a moment, remembering home — the sound of pots in the kitchen, her mother's voice calling for dinner. And then, silence snapping like a broken bone.
On the second night, they stop at an abandoned station to refuel with stolen diesel. Daytona steps out of the truck, diesel dripping cold on the hard ground. Martin stretches his legs. Saravia rummages through a depot, finds old soup cans — Ghost opens one with a knife, offers it to Daytona.
She refuses with a gesture. — Not hungry — lying.
Ghost bites a cold piece of canned sausage. — You'll need strength, girl. The Guardian won't be like any Corrupted. — He nods toward the snow. — That thing was made to devour anyone who tries to touch the book. Flesh, bone, spirit. It's not natural.
Daytona watches her breath cloud in the air. The cold bites her wrists, but the heat inside her burns. — Nothing's been natural since Beelzebub fell inside me.
Ghost spits a short laugh. — And still you breathe. Impressive.
Saravia returns, chewing on a cereal bar found in a half-collapsed cupboard. Talking with her mouth full: — If this Guardian's so dangerous, why don't you two go in while I wait out here with the truck?
Martin gives her a light slap on the shoulder. — If we die, we all die together, right?
Saravia sticks out her tongue. Daytona rolls her eyes, but the moment eases the lump in her throat. She climbs back into the truck, sits by the open door, staring at a sky scattered with frozen stars.
Beelzebub speaks again, almost paternal: "If you fail, you won't wake up in a hospital, Daytona. You'll wake up in a nightmare worse than mine."
"Then I won't fail."
She shuts the door, pulls the cloak around her. Martin and Saravia soon drift off again. Ghost stays in the front cab, whispering into an old radio crackling in Russian.
When the engine growls back to life, swallowing the night, Daytona stares at the frozen glass. Her breath fogs the window. Reflected there, she barely recognizes herself: just an ordinary girl in a black cloak, surrounded by monsters and secrets. But still, with her gaze fixed on a miracle: Paradise.
And soon, she promises herself, the Guardian will have to get out of the way — or become food for something far greater than him.