INTERIOR – VIKTOR’S HOUSE, MAIN ROOM – HOURS LATER

The rustic room radiated the comfort of a crackling fire in the hearth.
Worn leather sofas and armchairs surrounded the central table.
In the corner, a bar cabinet stood tall, its dusty bottles from various origins catching the firelight.
At the foot of the fireplace, Dagmar slept soundly—his body fully relaxed after the day’s chaos.

Max and Viktor sat across from each other, their conversation flowing in quiet murmurs—
until the door opened.

Caliop walked in with steady steps.
Her skin still flushed from the hot water, damp strands of hair clinging to her shoulders.
She looked renewed.

The two men fell silent as she approached the bar, scanned the bottles, and picked one along with a glass.

VIKTOR (with a welcoming grin):
—Help yourself. Make yourself at home.

MAX (dryly, eyes still on his glass):
—You don’t know her when she drinks…

Caliop said nothing.
She poured slowly, filled the glass halfway,
and took a long sip—relishing the burn down her throat.
Then, with a steady expression, she sank into an armchair, legs crossed.

CALIÓP (firmly, placing her glass on the table):
—Alright, gentlemen. We're going to have a conversation.
And this time, I want answers. Let’s start from the beginning.

She leaned slightly toward Max, locking eyes with him.

CALIÓP:
—Max… who are you really?
Where did you find that record?

Max sighed, shrugged with apparent indifference—
but his posture tensed just enough to betray him.

MAX:
—Look, pretty sure I’ve got at least one broken rib…
Not really in the mood—

VIKTOR (cutting in with a dry laugh):
—His name’s not Max.
It’s William. William McKenna.
Stubborn bloody Scotsman.
Ex-military, ex-mercenary, and ex-husband.
He’s been chasing lost treasures for years like a dog chasing a bone.
Only thing he’s never let go of is that dog and—

MAX (cutting him off, scowling):
—Okay, Viktor, that’s enough.
You really want me to start talking about your cosplay habit?

The big Russian—who didn’t flinch at bullets or snowstorms—
turned faintly red and shut his mouth.

Caliop raised an eyebrow, amused,
then let her smile fade back into focus.

CALIÓP:
—Good. We’re getting somewhere.
So, William…
What the hell is that record?
Why is a paramilitary group after it?
And now they have it?

She took another drink, leaned in further.

CALIÓP:
—And tell me—
why did that artifact in the music store call itself Aman,
and tell us to find a troll…
only for the troll to say we shouldn’t listen to him?

The room went still.

The fire crackled in the hearth,
casting flickering shadows on the wooden walls.

CALIÓP:
—Do you even realize what just happened?
We were with a troll! A being… I don’t even know how to describe it.
Skin made of stone. And it nearly killed you.

She took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on Max.

CALIÓP:
—So now tell me…
What the hell am I doing in all this?

Max ran a hand over his face, rubbing his temple.
His eyes met Viktor’s—still watching silently.
Then he sighed… and nodded.

MAX (resigned):
—Alright, alright…
You’ll get your answers.

The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing dancing shadows across the wooden walls.
Max, Viktor, and Caliop sat in silence, each with a glass in hand.
Dagmar lay curled by the fire, blissfully unaware of the heavy air around them.

Max leaned forward, fingers tapping the rim of his glass before speaking.

WILLIAM (MAX):
—I don’t have all the answers… not yet.
But I’ll tell you what I do know.

Caliop crossed her arms and stared at him, unblinking—waiting.

WILLIAM (MAX):
—That vinyl… it’s not just some way for Aman to communicate.
It’s a key.

Caliop frowned.
Max took a sip from his glass and went on.

WILLIAM (MAX):
—And don’t worry about it falling into the wrong hands.
The record never left the music store.
Before I left, I swapped it for another.
No better place to hide a record… than in a record store.

VIKTOR let out a low, amused laugh.

VIKTOR:
—Ha. I’d pay to see the look on those bastards’ faces when they put it on and get Pink Floyd instead.

Max gave a crooked smile.

WILLIAM (MAX):
—I don’t know who those people are, the ones after us.
But if they’re chasing us… it means we’re on the right track.

Caliop tapped her fingers against the side of her glass, taking it all in.

CALIÓP:
—And what the hell do I have to do with it?

Max reached into his jacket and pulled out the record sleeve.
He passed it to her.

WILLIAM (MAX):
—This.

She took it, skeptical.
The sleeve was old, but well preserved.
Her eyes settled on the cover—
a constellation, printed in shimmering silver ink.

Max laid it flat on the table and slowly opened it.

Inside, the sleeve was filled with handwritten notes.
Coordinates.
Lines connecting stars like a celestial map.

Caliop blinked.
Her expression shifted from exhaustion… to pure wonder.

With one quick motion, she downed the rest of her drink and grabbed the sleeve with both hands, studying it closely.

WILLIAM (MAX):
—I think you know what these markings mean.
And what they’re telling us.

Caliop bit her lip but didn’t take her eyes off the page.

CALIÓP:
—You’re going to tell me where you got this record…
and then you’re going to take me home.

She looked up and locked eyes with Max—intense, unwavering.

CALIÓP:
—If you do that… I might give you your answers.

The camera slowly pulled back, revealing the scene from the edge of the dimly lit room.
The firelight danced over the table—
where destiny now lay written in stars.

EXT. CLANDESTINE AIRSTRIP – WIDE SHOT

The airstrip was a clearing carved out of the snowy vastness, where the wind dragged lazy flakes across the makeshift runway.
A weathered biplane waited with its engine rumbling, the scarred fuselage bearing witness to countless flights lived on the edge of the law.

Viktor, William (Max), Ivan, and Caliop stood beside the plane, wrapped in the biting cold.
Ivan, as grumpy as ever, loaded the backpacks into the cargo bay while whistling a Russian tune with deliberate nonchalance.

Viktor tightened his coat and looked at William with that unique blend of respect and exasperation reserved for old friends.

VIKTOR (with a crooked smile):
—William, as always, a pleasure doing business with you...
You know I like you—
but I like your gold more. (laughs)
Hope it’s a while before I see you again.

The two men shared a firm handshake—
the kind of grip only mercenaries use, where nothing more needs to be said.

Then Viktor turned to Caliop, studying her for a brief moment before offering a sincere smile.

VIKTOR:
—Nice meeting you, Caliop. Take care.

Without warning, he grabbed her by the shoulders and planted three big kisses on her cheeks—Russian tradition, no exceptions.

Caliop froze, not used to such enthusiasm,
and her face flushed instantly.

CALIÓP (hesitating):
—Well… that was… something.
I’ll send you a postcard.

Viktor laughed and winked before stepping back.

VIKTOR:
—There were plenty of pilots available…
but I don’t know why Ivan insisted he had to be the one.

Caliop raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Ivan,
who popped open the biplane door with a sharp, mechanical clack.

Dagmar, without hesitation, hopped in first with the agility of a seasoned traveler.

William followed, grunting as he stepped up onto the wing.

Just as Caliop was about to climb in, she paused.
She looked at Ivan, reached into her pocket…
and pulled out the watch—
the same one he nearly stole from her room.

Without a word, she held it out to him.

The Russian blinked, surprised… then broke into a wide grin of pure satisfaction.
He took it gently and turned it over in his hand,
murmuring something in Russian—maybe a thank-you, maybe an inside joke only he understood.

Without wasting a second, he leapt into the pilot seat, fired up the engines with a mechanical roar,
and pulled a beer from inside his coat.

He popped the cap off with his teeth, downed it in one go—
and as the engines roared louder,
he began to sing in booming Russian.

William and Caliop exchanged a glance,
both clearly thinking the same thing:

"This might be worse than the taiga."

The plane sped down the snowy runway—
and with a final wheeze, lifted off into the Siberian sky.