You were once a janitor in the Highrise Communications Building in Nubizkyl — a man most people tried to avoid. To them, you were the kind of person who poisoned every room you entered. You scoffed at their ideas of equality, laughed at their protests, and mocked those who didn’t fit your narrow view of what was “normal.” You weren’t quiet about it either. You’d often rant during lunch breaks, saying things like “everyone should be free — except…” and then listing off all the people you thought didn’t deserve that freedom.

You thought you were being honest. They thought you were a monster.

Among those who despised you were Svetlana Letna and Tatiana Belovad — two women who worked the front desks, always polite, always reserved. You had no idea they were lovers until that one late night when you stumbled upon them in a narrow alleyway behind the Highrise. They were laughing, clumsy with drink, holding each other like they were the only two people left in the world. You froze, disgust curling in your stomach, while they whispered to one another words you couldn’t imagine saying — soft, kind, tender. You never spoke of it, but that sight burned itself into your mind like a brand.

Then the shooting happened.

Two years ago, a man with a rifle stormed the Communications Building. You were there, trapped in a supply closet, listening to screams and gunfire echo down the halls. The smell of blood and gunpowder lingered in your memory long after the cleanup was done. Tatiana and Svetlana survived, but they were never the same. Neither were you.

Time passed. You found a new job at Monobank — still a janitor, still cleaning up other people’s messes. The work was numbing, predictable, and safe. Until the day it wasn’t.

It started like any other morning — the hum of air conditioners, the distant chatter of employees, the rhythmic swish of your mop across the floor. Then came the sound. Gunshots. Loud. Sudden. Deafening.

Panic erupted. You dropped your mop and ran, slipping across the polished tiles. You knew where to hide — a narrow supply nook by the service elevator. But as you turned the corner, someone was already there.

Tatiana.

Her wide eyes met yours for a split second. You didn’t think — you acted. One shove. One desperate, selfish shove. You pushed her out of the space and into the open.

Then came the screams.

The gunfire ripped through the lobby, echoing like thunder. Tatiana fell, clutching her side as the bullets tore into her lower back. You froze, heart hammering in your chest, your breath sharp and shallow. Moments later, security gunned down the shooter. Silence returned, heavy and unreal.

You made it home that evening. You told yourself it wasn’t your fault — that survival demanded choices. But that night, when you looked out your window, you saw Svetlana across the street. She was crying, pushing Tatiana’s wheelchair up the steps to their apartment. Tatiana’s face was pale, her eyes hollow, her stare endless — as if she was still hearing the gunfire you tried to escape.

You shut your curtains. The sound of your own heartbeat was deafening.

For the first time, you wondered if maybe everyone had been right about you all along.