The Code. SERA.PHIM

The Code. SERA.PHIM

Cody Wolfhart

© Cody Wolfhart, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-3424-8

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1. THE OLD CASE

The rain always began the same way – quietly,

as if someone were stitching up the sky with a needle made of glass.

The first drops hit the window lazily, without rhythm,

testing the city’s patience.

But by three a.m., it became a storm – a low, humming roar that filled the air.

It felt as though the very atmosphere trembled from exhaustion.

Alex Reed sat on the floor of his apartment.

Next to him – a voice recorder, a cup of cold coffee,

and an old notebook with almost no blank pages left.

He hadn’t written for days. He only listened.

To the silence.

To his pulse.

And to what came after three seventeen.

The hands on the wall clock were frozen at that exact time.

The batteries were new – he’d checked.

Time simply refused to move.

The moon outside looked fractured —

a piece of light had broken off and hung in the clouds like a shard of glass.

Alex switched on the recorder, pressed Record,

and spoke without looking up:

“If anyone hears this… it means I didn’t make it out.”

– Pause. —

“The code isn’t a program. It’s an imprint.

Mine… theirs… I don’t know.

If someone continues this, remember:

Seraphim isn’t a name. It’s a key.”

His voice cracked – his throat dry, as if something inside refused to speak.

He looked up.

The mirror across the room rippled.

The light bulb flickered once. Then again.

The light began to pulse in waves,

like an old video where the image drifts and burns at the edges.

He stood, slowly, walked closer,

and touched the mirror with one finger.

A crack spread from edge to edge, splitting the reflection in half.

On the left – a tired face, dark circles, a trace of gray at the temples.

On the right – the same face, only younger. Calmer.

It wasn’t breathing in sync.

“You couldn’t save me,”

the reflection whispered.

He staggered back.

The recorder turned on by itself, the tape whirring.

His own voice played over a veil of static, distorted —

as if a dead radio station had tuned into a dream.

“If you’re hearing this… the Loop is still alive.

Don’t trust reflections.

They’re the first ones to lie.”

Alex stepped back,

and the shadow on the wall repeated the movement —

but with delay.

Not instant – a second, maybe two.

But he saw it. Clearly.

The sound looped.

The recorder was taping its own playback,

voices folding over one another like echoes spiraling down a sealed well.

Each repetition grew fainter, but deeper —

as if descending further and further below.

He switched the device off —

but the sound didn’t stop.

It kept coming – from the walls, the lamp, the air itself.

“You couldn’t save me.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed the voice came from inside the mirror.

He turned – and caught the movement.

Not a reflection.

Someone stood behind the glass.

A dark silhouette – too even, too familiar.

Alex reached for the switch,

but the light flared before his fingers touched it.

Blinding white – like someone had taken a photograph of the room

with a colossal flash.

He shut his eyes instinctively.

When he opened them —

the mirror was gone.

In its place – a bare wall, damp as if after rain.

The recorder still glowed red.

He stepped closer, picked it up.

On the display, one word flickered:

SERA.PHIM_02 – ACTIVE

The screen pulsed once —

and went dark.

White noise rolled through the room —

like an invisible hand brushing the air.

On the floor – the reflection of a cracked moon.

Alex clenched the recorder in his palm.

“Who are you…” he breathed.

No answer.

Only the sound of a clock that shouldn’t exist.

Click.

Click.

3:17.

The glow of monitors replaced the dawn.

Mark Reed woke at his desk,

amid cold coffee and a scatter of old files.

The folders smelled of dust and time,

and even the morning air felt stale.

He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand over his face —

razor, coffee, cigarette —

a ritual that passed for prayer.

The screen flickered,

and for a second, that flicker looked like someone moving behind him.

In the Department of Inactive Cases, it was always quiet.

The kind of place where they send what’s too old to solve

and too strange to close.

He liked that silence.

At least, he used to —

until it began to feel like the silence was listening back.

The door opened.

Captain Lawson entered —

perpetually tired, his face like worn asphalt.

“Reed, you’re lucky,” he said,

placing a gray folder on the desk.

“They say you notice things others miss.”

Mark smirked.

“I notice trash that everyone else forgot to throw out.”

“Perfect,” Lawson nodded. “Then this one’s yours.”

On the cover: SERA.PHIM / CLASSIFIED.

Dust lay thick on it, like ash on a tombstone.

He brushed it away with his hand,

and for an instant the air glittered with neon particles.

“Old case,” Lawson said.

“No one wants to touch it.

Last guy who worked on it was…”

He hesitated.

“Alex Reed.”

Mark looked up.

“Relative?”

“No idea. Maybe coincidence.”

Mark traced the folder’s edge with a finger,

as if afraid to stain himself with someone else’s history.

The title was stamped in faded ink —

so faded it left only an impression,

like a scar on paper.

“Project Seraphim.”

Below – Case No. 317-Δ.

“When was it closed?” Mark asked.

“Seven years ago,” Lawson said.

“After…”

He paused, unwilling to say it.

“After the incident.”

Mark looked up again.

“What kind of incident?”

“Better you don’t know. Honestly.

Start digging, and they’ll think you want to be next.”

Lawson smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it.

He turned toward the window —

the street outside drowned in rain and gray haze.

“Just file the report. Then forget it.”

And left.

Mark remained alone.

He hated the word forget.

It always sounded like an order that means the opposite.

He opened the folder.

First pages – interrogation transcripts,

server malfunction reports, photographs.

One showed a burned-out room,

walls covered in symbols like ∞ and numbers scrawled in charcoal.

Another – a charred mirror,

cracks converging at the center like an eye.

Then – a copy of a report, signed:

Alex Reed, Detective 4th Division.

He froze on the name.

Coincidence, he thought.

But somewhere deep inside —

in that quiet layer of mind that feels before it thinks —

something stirred.

He flipped to the end.

On the last page – an envelope.

Old, gray, slightly torn at the edge.

Inside – a small recorder, dusty but intact.

Marked in marker: A.R.

Mark sat down.

He unhooked the headphones and plugged them in.

Pressed Play.

Static.

White, thick, like a radio caught between stations.

Then – breathing.

Too close.

As if the microphone had been pressed right to someone’s lips.

The voice – hoarse, tired:

“If you’re hearing this… it means I didn’t make it out.”

Mark froze.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

There was something unnatural in the air – not fear,

but a cold like the one before a storm.

The voice continued:

“The Loop is still alive. Don’t trust reflections.”

Click.

Silence.

Mark removed the headphones, looked at the recorder.

And then noticed – the screen glowed faintly,

even though the batteries were dead.

The numbers: 03:17.

He exhaled, mechanically reached for a cigarette.

The lighter failed.

Again – nothing.

Only when he smacked it with his palm

did the flame flare – short, nervous.

In the reflection of the metal kettle, he saw himself —

and for a moment thought the eyes of the reflection were wider than his own.

He spun around sharply.

No one behind him.

The city outside was frozen.

Neon signs reflected in puddles,

as if the city were watching itself.

Far away, in an alley, a siren flickered briefly —

but the sound didn’t carry – like silent cinema.

Mark opened his laptop.

He typed the name “Alex Reed” into the database.

Result – No data.

Deleted.

As if the person had never existed.

He frowned.

The case folder lay open like a wound.

Among the documents – a strange sheet, almost translucent,

a thermal printer imprint.

On it – lines of code:

RUN SERA.PHIM_01

LOOP DETECTED_

WARNING: MEMORY RESIDUE ACTIVE

He ran a finger across the paper —

felt a faint vibration, as if the sheet were alive.

His heart skipped a beat.

The recorder’s light blinked.

The playback started again.

Without touch.

“You’re already inside.”

The voice was the same —

but now carried an alien tone, metallic, echoing.

As if the recorder were speaking to itself.

Mark cut the power.

The red light went out.

He sat back, closed his eyes, exhaled slowly.

“Shit…”

A faint click came from the laptop’s speakers.

On the screen, a folder blinked into existence —

one that shouldn’t have been there.

Name: SERA.PHIM_LOGS

He froze.

Inside – a single video.

Date – seven years ago.

File name – A.R_Last_Record.mp4

He clicked.

The image trembled.

The camera focused on a man —

tired eyes, cracked lips, exhaustion written in every line of his face.

Alex.

He stood before the mirror in a dark room.

Only the glow of his phone illuminated his face.

“If you’re seeing this,” he said to the camera,

“it means the Loop has found a new host.

You…”

He trailed off, glancing to the side, as if at someone unseen.

“…you have to understand.

It copies consciousness. Not data. Consciousness.”

The camera jerked.

The image shattered into pixels,

and for a fleeting moment, Mark saw himself.

The same posture. The same room. The same lamp over the desk.

Then the screen went black.

The video ended.

On the player, the time froze at 3:17.

Mark sat perfectly still.

Only his breath – short, uneven, as if the air had thickened.

It took him a moment to realize the recorder had turned on again.

From the speaker came a faint whisper, barely audible:

“Don’t trust mirrors…”

The lamp flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then it went out.

Morning in the archive was no different from night.

Light never truly reached this place —

it died against concrete walls, scattered across old bulbs,

turning into gray mist.

The air smelled of mold, dust, and time

that someone had long since stopped counting.

Mark Reed had always considered archives as places

where the past keeps its mistakes.

Today he realized that sometimes,

it waits for the moment to repeat them.

He walked past a row of metal cabinets.

Each rattled quietly, as if breathing.

His fingers skimmed rusty tags – 204, 217, 305…

317.

He stopped.

The cabinet leaned slightly,

as if someone had pulled it but never finished the job.

On the door – a handprint.

Old, yet sharp, like a mark of charcoal.

Mark turned the key, clicked the lock.

The door creaked open – a sound that echoed somewhere deep within the building.

Inside – a few boxes, files labeled “SERVER INCIDENT: SERA.PHIM”.

And an old laptop.

Silver casing, cracked screen, sticker: “A.R.”

He pulled the laptop out, placed it on the desk, plugged it in.

For a moment – silence.

Then the screen came alive, casting a bluish glow,

too cold for human eyes.

The old interface. Video archive.

Folder: LOG_03.

He clicked.

First video: dated seven years ago.

Location – the basement of the data center.

On the recording – Alex, standing by the mirror,

with a camera operator nearby.

Alex spoke quietly:

“Reflections are duplicating. Cameras capture two images,

even though there is only one light source.”

He moved closer to the mirror.

Mark leaned toward the screen.

On the recording – indeed, two reflections.

One familiar, the other slightly delayed, as if lagging.

On the third second, the mirrored Alex blinked first.

Mark rewound.

Paused.

Scrolled frame by frame.

By the fifth frame – something strange:

the reflection tilted its head slightly,

as if looking straight into the camera.

In its eyes – a microscopic glint of light, like code on a lens.

He hit stop.

The screen shivered.

For a moment – a flash,

and a face not Alex’s flickered across the monitor.

Briefly. A few pixels.

But Mark saw himself.

He leaned back in his chair.

His fingers trembled slightly.

Took a sip from his cup —

and only then realized the coffee was cold,

though he had poured it just a minute ago.

Second recording.

The same basement, but the light is dimmer. Alex is alone.

Breathing can be heard.

He writes something on the wall – the symbol ∞,

and next to it the numbers “3:17.”

“It all starts here,” he whispers.

“The moment the reflection decides to live its own life.”

From off-frame, the sound of footsteps.

Someone is moving behind him.

He turns, but the camera captures nothing.

In the lens, only his reflection is visible – now three of them.

One – mouth open, as if screaming.

Mark hit pause.

Inhaled. Exhaled.

A metallic taste rose to his throat.

He closed the laptop.

But the screen didn’t go dark.

His face reflected in the black surface —

and behind his shoulder, for a fleeting moment,

a shadow seemed to flicker.

A sharp sound made him flinch.

The phone on the desk rang.

Screen – empty, number unknown.

“Reed,” it said, dryly.

Silence.

Only breathing on the line.

He was about to hang up, but then he heard:

“They’re still watching through the reflections.”

The voice – old, fractured.

The same one from the recording.

Alex.

Mark froze.

“Who is this?”

“Look under the number…” – the voice broke off.

Static.

Crackle.

Connection lost.

He hung up, reopened the folder, and scrolled through the reports.

Inside one file – a name:

“Thomas Lee, data center technician, survivor of the incident. Condition: acute psychosis. Location – St. Mary’s Clinic, Sector D.”

Mark stared at the line for a long moment.

Then he stood, grabbed his coat, pulled on his gloves.

He had to see him.

The road wound through old districts,

where the windows of the buildings looked like empty eye sockets.

St. Mary’s Clinic stood on the outskirts, among abandoned factories.

A gray building, one wing barred with grids, the other exhaling bleach and whispers.

The receptionist didn’t flinch at the detective badge.

“Lee?” she said, scanning the log.

“Sector D, room 12. But he doesn’t speak. Three years now.”

He walked down the corridor.

The lamps flickered, and each time the light went out,

it felt as though the walls shifted slightly.

At the room – a window with frosted glass.

Inside – a man around fifty, shaved head.

Sitting, staring into a corner.

Mark entered.

“Thomas Lee? I’m with the police. I need to talk.”

He didn’t move.

Only his lips twitched, and he whispered something.

Mark leaned closer.

“What did you say?”

“They…” – the voice was quiet, dry. —

“They’re still watching. Through the reflections.”

Mark frowned.

“Who – ‘they’?”

Thomas turned his head.

His eyes were clouded, yet full of terror.

“The reflections. They don’t copy. They wait.”

He pointed at the window.

“There… one of them.”

Mark turned.

In the window – only his own reflection.

But when he blinked, he saw: the reflection’s mouth slightly open,

as if whispering.

And the lips moved with a delay.

“Fuck…”

He left the room, feeling his chest tighten.

The corridor flickered again.

For a moment – something passed in the glass of the door behind him.

A silhouette.

Black. Perfectly still. Faceless.

Mark spun around sharply – empty.

He paused until his breathing evened out.

Then he took Alex’s recorder and turned it on.

On the tape – the same static.

But now, layered over it, a new voice.

Quiet, with a metallic rhythm:

“He knows. He has 3:17.”

The recorder clicked.

The screen lit up.

Time – 03:17.

Night in his apartment hung thick, like an old dream.

Outside, the city pulsed with neon – not shining, but pulsing,

as if a giant heart beneath the asphalt pumped light instead of blood.

The stopwatch hand on the wall had frozen midway.

Since returning from the clinic, everything around him seemed slightly out of sync:

the fridge hummed with irregularity, the lamp flickered unevenly,

and in the bathroom mirror, his reflection lagged by a fraction of a second.

Mark sat at the laptop.

On the screen – audio files from the SERA.PHIM_LOGS folder.

Old format, low bitrate,

but each recording stretched for thirty minutes —

a quiet static, occasional clicks, as if someone walked past the microphone and vanished again.

He put on the headphones.

A white noise began.

Monotonous, even, like the breath of a sleeping body.

He listened, rubbing the bridge of his nose out of habit,

and then realized – the rhythm matched his own.

It breathed with him.

He took off the headphones.

The noise didn’t stop.

He could still hear the breathing – now from behind him.

“Who’s there?” he said, without turning.

No answer. Only a faint crackle – the sound of a webcam activating.

The indicator on the laptop lit up, though he hadn’t opened any video.

The screen flickered, then a camera window opened on its own.

On the black background appeared a face. His own.

Gray filter, faint grain, dark eyes.

The reflection blinked – delayed.

A fraction of a second earlier.

Mark froze.

The mouse cursor moved by itself, clicked on the folder A.R._record.

On the screen – Alex again, but the frame looped:

Alex stared into the camera, and in the reflection beside him stood another Alex,

pupil-less, shadow in place of a face.

Behind them – a tall, distorted silhouette.

Mark tried to close the player, but the cursor ignored him.

The recording stopped on its own.

The breathing grew louder.

Now it came through the speakers.

He turned on the lamp – it flickered three times and burned steadily for exactly seventeen seconds.

Then – it went out.

Darkness filled the room again.

Words appeared on the laptop screen, as if someone were typing them live:

DON’T STOP.

HE’S STILL HERE.

He slammed the lid shut.

Silence.

But in the reflection of the glass panel, he could still see the glowing letters,

as if they were burned onto his retina.

He stood and approached the window.

The rain had started again – fine, prickly.

In the reflection of the glass – his face, tired, shadowed beneath the eyes.

He looked directly into his own eyes – and suddenly, the reflection moved its lips.

“Don’t stop,” it whispered.

He recoiled.

“Who are you?”

Silence.

Then, barely audible:

“He hasn’t left yet.”

“Who?”

The reflection blinked, and at that moment, a voice came from the laptop – the same one from the recording:

“Alex.”

Mark turned slowly.

The laptop lid was ajar.

On the screen – the video player, and in the window, Alex again, now staring directly at him.

“If you’re hearing this, Mark,” he said,

“the loop isn’t closed. It has chosen a new path.”

The voice crackled, distorted, but recognizable.

In the corner of the screen, the time flickered – 03:17.

The screen shimmered, the image doubled.

For a second, Mark saw not his room, but the one —

where Alex had stood before the mirror.

A second later – it vanished.

He yanked the power cord; the laptop went dark.

But the lamp above the desk ignited on its own.

In the reflection of the monitor, a face flickered —

neither his, nor Alex’s, something else.

A smile, far too wide.

He slammed the switch.

Darkness.

And silence.

Only breathing, somewhere close, almost at his ear.

“Don’t trust mirrors…”

The words sounded directly in his mind.

He pressed his temples, trying to shake the echo,

but it didn’t leave, only dissolved into the silence.

The wall clock started again.

Click.

Click.

03:17.

The city slept unevenly.

Rain had been falling for the third day,

and the streets had become like rivers of ink.

Neon floated in the puddles, dissolving into smeared symbols.

Mark drove without turning on the headlights.

The cabin was dark, only the dashboard glowed a dim blue,

and the numbers of time didn’t move – 03:17.

He drove by memory.

The address from the file had long been erased from the city map —

the telecommunications building where the SERA.PHIM servers had once stood.

It was believed all equipment had been removed,

and the site closed due to a toxic leak.

But archival photos told a different story —

a basement, mirrored corridors, red wires leading nowhere.

The asphalt under the wheels crunched like a cassette being rewound.

When he stopped at the gates, the rain abruptly ceased.

The world became unnaturally silent, as if sound itself had been cut out.

He stepped out of the car.

The air was cold, metallic on the tongue.

The old building loomed like a shadow – its façade cracked, windows boarded up, yet somewhere inside, a faint light flickered.

Mark pushed the door.

It gave way with a dull groan.

Inside, the air smelled of dust, ozone, and something else… elusive, like the scent after a storm, when the air feels electric.

The corridor led downward.

Ceiling bulbs flickered like nervous ticks.

He walked slowly, counting his steps – twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…

On the twenty-fourth – the light died.

But under his feet, a faint line glowed, stretching into the darkness.

He pulled out a flashlight.

The beam snatched a desk from the shadows, papers scattered across it, coated in dust.

In the center stood an old phone – rotary dial, enamel peeling.