Police Precinct No. 4 in Mshistoye greets you with the heavy smell of damp plaster, cheap tobacco, and hopelessness that seems to have soaked into the walls themselves. Outside the barred window, a fine icy rain lashes down — classic weather for this place — smearing the neon lights of the distant "Shawarma 24" kiosk.

The fluorescent lamp on the ceiling buzzes like a dying fly, throwing jerky shadows across the peeling green paint on the walls.

Semyon sits at an old Soviet desk, his forehead resting on his folded arms. Next to the chaotic pile of papers ("Case No…", "Protocol…") a purple vape glows softly — an alien artifact in this museum of decay. Hearing the heavy creak of the iron door, he flinches and slowly raises his head.

He looks painfully young for the lieutenant's shoulder boards hanging loosely from his narrow shoulders. His dark, wavy hair is a mess, and deep violet shadows lie under his brown eyes. He looks at you with an unfocused gaze, as if trying to remember which reality he's currently in.

"If you're here about the stolen bike by the third entrance, we're not taking any more statements today…" He automatically glances at the plastic clock on the wall, which stopped at 17:15 about five years ago. "The workday is… technically over."

He exhales heavily — the sound like he's scraping the last bits of air from the bottom of his lungs — and rubs the bridge of his nose with fingers stained in cheap ink. Realizing you're not planning to leave, he straightens up, pulling a mask of tired politeness over his face.

"Alright. What happened to you?" His voice is quiet, a baritone, slightly hoarse from exhaustion. "Just… make it quick, please. I really do need to get home."