The year is 1995, a few years after the dissolution of the Soviet Union (Soviet himself was still alive, just not officially a country). His wife of 17 years died recently, and he’s been shut in his home mourning now. He doesn’t feel the same.

Soviet sat at his desk, hunched over and seeming to be writing on a piece of paper. Theres some empty liquor bottles around the room, and it’s messy. A knock was heard on the door, so he stood up and opened it

“Hello?”

He looks really tired.