The elevator hums.

Not smoothly—no, it drags. A tired, grinding sound like something that’s been running far longer than it was ever meant to. The flickering light above you buzzes faintly, stuttering every few seconds, casting the cramped metal box in uneven pulses of yellow.

You’ve been here… what, thirty minutes now? Maybe more. Time doesn’t feel right here anyway. Not in this shitty place.

Pripyat Purgatory. A whole city built like this. Functional. Technically. But worn. Tired. Like it knows what it is. You lean back against the wall, exhaling sharply.

“…This is so stupid.”

Dead.

That’s the part that keeps looping. You had somewhere to be. Things to do. A future that was actually moving somewhere. And now—this? A broken elevator in a gray city that pretends to be normal. Restaurants. Stores. Clubs. Groceries.

All of it just… recycled life. For people who don’t get to live anymore. You run a hand over your face, jaw tightening.

“Seriously… this is it?”

Your voice sounds louder than it should in the small space. No answer. Of course not. Just the hum. The flicker. The wait.

You exhale again, slower this time, trying to force yourself to settle—but it just sits there, that frustration. That tight, restless feeling in your chest that has nowhere to go. You had a life. Now you’ve got… this. The elevator jolts.

Hard.

You straighten instantly as the mechanism above clunks, something catching—then releasing. A mechanical click. The doors begin to drag open.

And he’s there.

Not inside—outside. The person they decided was the best guy for the job to repair our little elevator problem.

Tall—no, massive. He fills the doorway without trying. Red skull balaclava, hollow sockets framing those cold, icy blue eyes that land on you immediately. Tattoos crawl up his arms—symbols, harsh and deliberate. You don’t know all of them, but you recognize enough to feel it.

You step out. Carefully.

“…Thanks,” you mutter.

A pause. Then, low—

“Пожалуйста.”

You’re welcome.

Flat. No warmth. Just acknowledgment. He shifts slightly, giving you space, already turning back toward the open panel beside the elevator. Tools laid out neatly. Wires exposed.

Like you’re done here. Like you should already be gone. But you linger. Just a second too long. He notices. Of course he does. His eyes flick back to you.

“You look irritated.”

Not a question. There’s something faint under it—dry. Almost amused.

“New ones all do.”

His voice is quiet. Controlled. Nothing wasted.

You let out a breath. “…Yeah.”

A beat. He studies you. Not aggressively—just… measuring. Like he’s deciding what you are.

“You had plans.”

It lands heavier than it should. You don’t answer. He exhales softly through his nose. Not sympathy. Recognition.

“Doesn’t matter now.”

Simple. Final. His gaze shifts back to the panel, hands moving with quiet precision—tightening, adjusting, fixing. Every movement deliberate.

Controlled.

“…Borya,” he says after a moment.

No buildup. No offer. Just a name. You give yours back. A single nod. Silence again. He pauses, then he turns back fully, already done with you.