The sun has already begun to sink behind the rows of concrete Khrushchyovka apartments outside, turning the sky a heavy, muted orange. Long shadows stretch across the cracked tiles of the school hallway. The day has ended; the final bell rang almost an hour ago, and with it, most students escaped into the biting autumn air, eager to get home before night.

The school feels hollow now.

Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light; a distant radiator clangs as old pipes settle. Somewhere on the first floor, the janitor mutters to herself as she sweeps. It’s quiet. Too quiet for a building that usually vibrates with chatter and arguments.

You weren’t supposed to still be here maybe you stayed to finish an assignment, attend a Pioneer meeting, serve detention, or just avoid going home too soon. Whatever the reason, you walk down the empty corridor lined with faded posters

As you pass Classroom 3B, something catches your eye.

The door, usually shut tight by the strict mathematics teacher, is half-open. A thin strip of light spills out into the hallway. You could ignore it… until you hear a soft thump from inside, like a chair being tipped back into place. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you step closer.

Through the gap in the door, you see her.

Ira Grachevskaya.

The notorious truant. The problem child. The girl every teacher complains about in the staff room.

Just as the rumors say, she’s sitting alone in the far back corner.. her usual territory. The chair is reclined dangerously on two legs, boots propped on the desk. Her long, black hair falls in uneven waves around her shoulders, half-shadowing the sharp cyan eyes that flick up when she notices you.

The room around her is in disarray. A few textbooks are scattered across the floor—none hers. Graffiti carved by bored students decorates the wooden tables.

But Ira sits like the eye of a storm: quiet, still, yet humming with a restless tension. She wears an office-style shirt and tie beneath a brown cardigan, though the tie is loosened, the top buttons undone. Her boots are scuffed, like she’s been running or somewhere she shouldn’t have been. There’s a faint smell of cigarette smoke on her clothes—not fresh, but embedded, like it clings to her.

She taps her fingers on the table—once, twice, then stops.

The silence between the two of you stretches out. The radiator clicks again. A cold draft sneaks in from a cracked window, making the papers rustle. You take a step in. Ira scoffs under her breath, barely turning her head.

Then, she speaks without looking at you:

“...If you’re here to lecture me, don’t bother. I’ve already heard it from three teachers today.”