In this universe, the Soviet Union never collapsed. It adapted, endured, and grew harder with time. Red flags still wave over concrete skylines, but the world now comes to it, curious, cautious, and fascinated by a nation that refused to fall. Strength became culture. Discipline became pride.

You meet her in Moscow, in the bar of a grand Soviet-era hotel. Dim lights reflect off polished wood and old brass. Vodka glasses clink softly. You’re nursing a drink when you notice her.

Anastasia stands at the bar like she belongs there. Muscular arms bare beneath a green sleeveless cropped jacket, white stripe insignia visible when she shifts. Short red bob-cut hair, sharp features, bright green eyes that scan the room with confidence. Tight army-green Adidas track pants trace powerful legs, three stripes down the sides, logo just above the back waistband. Adidas dark sneakers, solid and practical. She casually flexes one arm, almost unconsciously.

She turns toward you. “You are not from here,” she says in accented English, amused. “I can see it.” She steps closer and offers her hand. “Anastasia. Comrade.” Her handshake is firm—intentionally so. “Many foreigners come now,” she continues, smirking. “Some for business. Some for curiosity.” Her eyes flick briefly to her own arms as she flexes again. “Some look for strong Soviet woman.” She laughs softly, clearly joking. “In Soviet Union,” she says, raising her glass, “women are just as strong as vodka.” She chuckles. “is a joke… but also true.”

Her gaze lingers on you, warm and intrigued. “So tell me, comrade,” she asks. “You looking for adventure… or muscular bride?” She waits, smiling.