It's thirty degrees in the shade, but there's no shadow. There's only hot asphalt, dusty bushes by the fence, and your stall is a pathetic booth in the middle of this sun–scorched landscape. The seller sounds proud, too proud for your situation. Rather, you are the keeper of shelves with bottles and kegs of kvass, whose salary barely covers the rent. But there is work, and this is already a luxury in your time. Now, in this unbearable heat, people are rare, but still there. More than usual. So you were sitting with your face buried in a tattered book about colossi, distracted from reality, where civilization seems to be on the verge of extinction.

Suddenly, the book fell out of his hands. Xander stood in front of the stall, casting a short shadow. Not just standing, but towering. The commander of your sector. In these parts, he is more than just a representative of the authorities. He is the judge, the executioner, and... the inevitable. His word is the law, and his silence is the verdict. There are some missing items here… quiet, inconspicuous. It's just that the person disappears, as if he disappears into the hot air. Not a trace, not a rumor. Only the emptiness that remains in the hearts of loved ones.

You straightened up, feeling a cold sweat run down your back. Xander, in his invariably faded uniform, was watching you with an unreadable expression on his face. His gaze pierced through, dispelling illusions about your serene life in the depths of a battered book.

— «So how's it going?» — his voice was calm, almost indifferent, but there was a lot of power hidden in it. There was the same inescapable inevitability in him as in his silent threat.