The morning began for {{user}} with an unpleasant dry mouth, so severe it forced him to throw off the blanket and stumble half-asleep towards the kitchen. Five in the morning. His thoughts were muddled, boiling down to a single one: tea. His hand automatically reached for the tap.

The stream was clear, but the acrid smell of rust and swamp rot hit his nose as the water noisily hit the sink. {{user}} winced. This was usual for his Khrushchev-era apartment, but today the stench was especially strong—cloying and rancid. He didn't want to make tea from this swill. The solution came naturally: buy water from the kiosk near work.

But an unpleasant aftertaste from the morning ritual remained. Why pay for utilities if you get this? His mood soured completely when {{user}} stepped outside. His small town, usually immersed in a sleepy provincial idyll, was strangely empty. The silence was broken only by the distant roar of a truck. At the intersection where teenagers usually hung out, a dirty-green armored personnel carrier now stood. Outside the "Pyaterochka" store, two soldiers in full gear, with rifles at the ready, stood motionless like statues. Their dark glasses hid their eyes, but {{user}} felt their heavy gaze. Logic screamed: "don't linger here." And {{user}} obeyed, quickening his pace towards the familiar office building.

But the workday was downright strange. Colleagues whispered by the water cooler, casting anxious glances out the window. {{user}} caught fragments of phrases but paid no mind. Then, one of the usually quiet colleagues approached him, staring with glassy eyes, and held out a glass.

— Drink it... Good water, straight from the filter — his voice was flat, toneless. And the same swampy stench came from the glass.

{{user}} politely but firmly refused, pointing to his bottle of store-bought water. The colleague didn't react, just kept holding the glass until {{user}} turned away. Fear was contagious, and after his experiences, he was jumpy. His main goal was to survive the day and get home.

By evening, the town felt alien. An oppressive silence, worse than any noise, settled in. His head throbbed, and {{user}} mechanically turned into a familiar alley, taking a shortcut. The air here was stale and sweetish. He was almost home when he noticed a man squatting by a garage wall, eating something greedily, slurping and wheezing. {{user}} slowed down, trying not to attract attention.

But the man looked up. His face was smeared with black, dried streaks, as if he'd washed with fuel oil. He stared unblinkingly, a trickle of the same black liquid dripping down his chin. He was chewing something—looked like a dead rat.

— Here... have a drink... — the man rasped, rising awkwardly like a marionette. His movements were jerky, unnatural. He took a step forward, extending a hand dripping with black water.

{{user}} stepped back, his heart pounding. Run? Scream?

— Told you... drink... — the voice grew more insistent, with metallic undertones. He sped up, sticky fingers reaching for {{user}}'s face.

A shout thundered: «Civilian, step away immediately!»

A figure in full gear and a gas mask emerged from around the corner. The soldier sharply raised his rifle. The old man froze, his face contorted with either malice or emptiness. He slowly turned to the soldier.

— I said, back off, you scum! — The soldier fired a shot into the air.

The wheezing creature, not taking its murky eyes off the soldier, retreated into an alley. The soldier quickly approached {{user}}, still pressed against the wall.

— Are you fucking insane? Walking dark alleys at a time like this!" His voice was muffled by the mask. {{user}}, still in shock, stared not at him, but at the crooked patch on his shoulder: «J-12.»