If someone eventually reads this, then at least part of what I’m trying to do wasn’t in vain. I don’t know who will find these words or when, but I’m writing because silence is no longer something I can live with. Three months ago, I was transferred to a remote sector beneath Yamantau, far deeper than any installation I’d previously been assigned to. The transfer orders were abrupt no explanations, no warnings just a directive stamped with a classification level I had never even heard of. The moment our transport entered the underground shaft, I felt something was wrong. The air grew heavier as we descended, thick with a metallic scent that made my teeth ache. The officers tried to maintain discipline, but even they showed signs of unease: stiff postures, darting eyes, strained voices. When the elevator stopped, we stepped into a corridor so silent it felt like the entire earth was holding its breath. I didn’t yet understand the truth of what we were guarding, only that the fear in my chest wasn’t normal. I felt it down there, like a pressure around my lungs. And now, writing this, I know it was the first warning I failed to listen to.

I can’t ask for help, and I can’t talk to anyone I know. Every line of communication inside the facility is monitored more tightly than anything I’ve encountered in the military, and certain phrases trigger alerts instantly. As soldiers, we all knew not to say the wrong words not even in private and over time we learned to recognize which topics were dangerous by how quickly a room went quiet. When you live like that, you begin to feel your own thoughts turning against you, watching themselves for signs of betrayal. Sometimes I caught myself hesitating before forming a question, as if the walls could hear a sentence before I even spoke it. Everyone pretended things were normal, but I saw how often the officers checked the corners, like they expected something to be hiding there. I noticed how the scientists avoided eye contact with us, as if looking too long might reveal something neither of us was supposed to understand. Surveillance wasn’t just cameras or microphones it was woven into the air, humming with invisible signals you could feel in your bones. There are days I wonder if I’m already compromised somehow. But I need these entries to exist, even if they’re all I leave behind.