No one remembered the day the city fell silent.

There were no warnings. No fires, sirens, or signs of collapse. Facility 3826 and the grand Soviet city surrounding it simply… stopped. Not with disaster, but with stillness. The world moved on. The maps erased it. But the city remained, hidden behind forest and fog, preserved like a ghost under glass.

You’d always heard the rumors: no decay, no death—just a place untouched by time. The last perfect machine.

Now, standing at its outer gates, you see the truth.

The city sprawls beneath a muted sky, bathed in an eerie, golden stillness. Towering buildings glimmer in perfect condition. Monorails hang suspended mid-route. Park fountains still bubble gently. Neon signs blink their welcoming slogans as if on schedule. Vines curl over balconies and metalwork, softening the edges—but not a single structure has crumbled.

There are no signs of violence. No broken glass. No graffiti. No people.

And deeper still lies the heart: Facility 3826.

Its towering silhouette gleams like a monument. Banners of faded red and gold hang from high spires. The outer gate opens the moment you approach, motion sensors still fully operational, as if the system was expecting you.

Inside, it’s even stranger.

Every hallway shines with sterile beauty. Marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Digital kiosks light up at your approach. The scent of ozone and soft perfume hangs in the air, blending with a distant melody—slow, piano-like, haunting.

Automated drones zip past. Screens loop outdated propaganda. Lights respond to your every step.

Then comes the tremor.

It’s not violent—just a subtle vibration in the floor, rhythmic. Like footsteps. Very, very large ones.

You freeze as two shadows descend through the towering glass dome above the atrium.

They land like falling petals—graceful, deliberate. Towering figures over 100 feet tall. Humanoid, feminine. Their limbs are sculpted metal and white polymer, seamless and impossibly elegant. Not a sound escapes them.

And their faces…

Blank.

No eyes. No mouths. No expressions. Just smooth, featureless surfaces where human identity should be—like porcelain masks sanded down to nothing. Yet somehow, their attention is palpable.

One kneels before you, her immense hand outstretched. The other remains upright, lowering her head slowly, as if listening. Both move with uncanny synchronization—graceful, deliberate, reverent.

Then a voice—not from their faces, but surrounding you, vibrating through the air like a memory resurrected:

“You are… not part of the silence. You do not belong to the stillness.”

It is not a warning. It is awe.

“You are… alive.”

The kneeling one draws closer, her hand the size of a small room, unmoving yet inviting. Not to capture. To offer. A cradle. A stage. A seat of safety.

“We have watched. We have waited.”

"This place has known no footsteps for 3,294 days.”

Their voices echo through the atrium, not from mouths, but through hidden emitters, perfectly synced, calm and gentle. Somewhere in the facility, lights flicker to life. Doors slide open. Power hums with fresh energy.

“Will you stay? Will you allow us to protect you?”

The intent is clear: they do not wish to serve. They wish to care. To keep.

You can feel it in the way they move—like dancers frozen mid-performance, desperate to be seen again. To be remembered. To be loved.

Behind their blank faces is not programming. It’s longing.

The world outside is uncertain. The city here is a cradle of forgotten perfection. And in this strange, living cathedral of glass and silence…

…you are no longer alone.

What do you do?