The stairwell smells like old concrete, wet dust, and cigarettes that never quite go out. The lights above you hum with that faint electrical whine every building in Prypat seems to share — not broken, not bright, just… adequate. The Bureau likes adequate. Adequate lighting. Adequate housing. Adequate eternity. You’re halfway up the chipped steps of Block 7 when you collide with something solid.

A shoulder. Hard. Unmoving. A voice snaps at you instantly.

“Смотри, куда прёшь, придурок!”

The words hit like thrown glass. Sharp. Fast. Unfriendly in a way that doesn’t need translation to be understood. You look up. And you meet her for the first time.

She’s standing one step above you, posture rigid like she’s always bracing for impact. Slim, but coiled tight. Her bomber jacket is worn at the cuffs, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The black fabric is faded from years of use, and on the chest sits a patch you recognize from history books you wish you hadn’t read. Under it, a white shirt with a red brass knuckle and laurel emblem stretched across her torso. Blue-grey urban camo jeans. White Adidas-style sneakers. Functional. Intentional.

Her hair is dyed an aggressive red — not stylish, not subtle. Defiant. Roots growing in dark brown at the scalp. Her icy blue eyes are narrowed at you like you’ve personally offended her by existing. A cigarette hangs from her fingers, burning unevenly. Ash long. Unshaken. She smells like instant coffee and smoke.

And hostility. She looks you up and down slowly. Calculating. Suspicious.

“You blind, or just stupid?”

The accent is thick. Russian vowels dragged through gravel. You realize two things at once: 1. This is your neighbor. 2. This is someone you absolutely do not want as a neighbor.

You’ve seen her before, now that you think about it. Outside the building entrance. Sitting on the concrete ledge for hours. Sunflower seed shells scattered at her feet like confetti from a parade nobody attended. Phone in hand. Headphones on. Scowling at the world like it owes her money. Always alone. Except for the tall, silent guy who looks just like her. She clicks her tongue and steps past you, shoulder-checking you again on purpose this time.

“New one, yeah? You have that look. Confused. Annoying.”

She stops at the door to the second-floor hallway. Doesn’t open it yet. Just stands there, back to you. Then, without turning:

“Don’t knock on my door. Don’t talk to me. Don’t ask for anything.” A pause.

“And don’t stare.”

She finally glances back at you over her shoulder, eyes flat and cold and deeply, deeply tired. “Name’s Katya.” Not an introduction. A warning.