Time: 01:12 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – The People's Plaza.
The feeling does not fade.
Even after stepping away from the bulletin board, the chill lingers like frost threading beneath his collar. It clings to thought: quiet, insistent.
His eyes sweep across the plaza. No one. No eyes. No movement. The open space has become abandoned. Odd, but probably just a coincidence, or so he hopes.
Nothing happens yet. But perhaps the gloom of the East Bloc has finally soaked into his nerves.
He swallows. Lingering too long in a cold, open, vulnerable space cannot be good for anyone's health.
The transfer student turns beneath a concrete archway. The familiar impulse guides his steps back toward the monorail station. And above the cold pavement, beneath a rusted lamp, stands a figure—a girl, emerging as if materializing through the oppressive air.
Tall. Composed. Immaculate.
Long black hair hangs like poured ink, smooth and still against the dead air. Porcelain skin catches the gray light, carved more than alive. Razor-straight bangs frame her face with surgical precision. They are deliberate and clinical.
But it is the eyes that hold the gaze. Deep red and unblinking.
As if they have already seen too much and no longer need to react.
Her black blazer hugs her frame with unsettling precision, pressed to the edge of regulation. It looks as though it is tailored by someone who knows exactly what fear looks like and how to dress just short of it.
A crimson armband embroidered with a bright yellow fist—the same symbol carved into the monument that stood defiantly at the center of the plaza—wrapped around her left sleeve. It was a sign of alignment, but in this moment, it resembled a warning more than a declaration.
Her white gloves remained pristine. As if she had passed through dirt without ever becoming part of it.
Everything about this woman is too clean. And that is what makes it so unsettling.
Liliya Ivanova.
She stands still. There is no shift, not even a blink.
Liliya does not announce herself. She simply allows herself to be seen, deliberately exposed to the second-year transfer student. A silent act, like a predator suspending its animation, watching its prey make the first move.
She has already chosen the outcome. This moment is not a challenge, but a courtesy.
The student, slow and uncertain, attempts to pass through. He does not know who this person is. For all he could guess, she might be waiting for someone else—someone special, someone recognizable. Not him. Not the boy who moves like a background character in someone else's story.
But her eyes follow. Not movement. Weight. Dense. Inevitable. Impossible to ignore.
Then finally...
"Most students stop walking because they are lost. You stopped because you realized you were not."
Her voice is soft, but surgical.
Stillness grips the plaza. The words slide between instinct and thought. His body answers first.
"I am here to pick up something… a discarded package. And it appears that I am on schedule."
She makes her intention clear. Her words are cryptic, yet carry a certain edge.
The boy finally turns to face her now.
"Excuse me, you're here for me?" he asks. His voice is quiet and uncertain.
Liliya leans forward, studying the boy's face. She neither confirms nor denies.
"I was looking for someone. You matched the profile."
She begins to move, one step forward at a time, not a sound nor a hesitation.
"I reviewed your evaluations," the girl continues. "Entrance score: average. Coordination: unremarkable. Presentation: below threshold. But... restraint. Discretion. Detachment. You hesitated only once."
Then comes a long stare. It is not her eyes that unsettle him, but the precision of her words. None of it sounds improvised.
"Okay… where did you get my profile?"
"I have access to every file," Liliya replies. She is not boasting. It is a stated fact.
"And I remember every face that crosses this plaza."
The plaza seems to shrink and grow colder the longer he engages with her. It feels like he is being drawn into an invisible box, one that tightens with each passing moment.
The boy glances sideways. A reflex, not a strategy.
Above the far concrete wall, an old surveillance camera hangs crooked on its rusted bracket. Its lens is clouded. Its wiring is half-frayed. But something in its dead glass eye suggests otherwise.
"Yours? A face this place does not recognize."
A longer pause follows. This is not a threat. It is something far more dangerous. An inevitability.
"What exactly is it that you want?" he asks. His tone is careful now. It is measured.
She holds the silence for a beat.
"You were processed and deposited into a zone no one audits. That makes you a variable. Something the system could never categorize, or perhaps refuses to."
"I didn't ask for a diagnosis."
"I did not offer one. Just context."
Her gaze does not waver; it grows sharper with each second that passes.
"And I do not tolerate waste."
The transfer student finally understands. He has caught himself in something dangerous. But perhaps there is a way he could break free from this. He knows he is not the confrontational type, so he needs a plan to escape this containment. His options are running out.
Then he shifts a half-step back, just enough to suggest withdrawal, a peaceful disengagement without inviting pursuit.
"Look, I appreciate the attention, but I still need to—"
Too late.
Liliya closes the distance in a single step. Not fast nor sudden, yet close enough to redefine the law of space.
The tension spikes. His thoughts scramble for footing. If this is intimidation, it is certainly working, but it is too practiced, too controlled.
His comfort zone is being violated.
And suddenly, one question rises clearer than the rest.
Who—what—has this kind of authority here?
"I am here for club recruitment," Liliya says, voice low, composed—alluring, but entirely without warmth. "And I need a certain type. Someone with no banners, no beliefs, no voice… a drifter."
"What kind of club are you with?"
His voice comes out steady, but it is tighter now.
Another pause follows. This one is intentional.
"One that remembers what this school was supposed to stand for."
This is not an explanation. No names are given. She simply walks toward the transfer student, her steps quiet, measured.
"You have until the end of the week," she says. Her voice does not sharpen, but it settles heavier now.
"Or the system will choose for you. And those it does not choose..."
A pause. This time, deliberate.
"They become… no one. No place. No shield. Forgotten."
The words are soft and final.
The second-year transfer student does not step back, nor does he respond. He nods, not in agreement, but in recognition.
The elegant girl turns, her coat barely stirring, one deliberate click of heel against pavement. Silence settles again.
Then she stops.
Neither of them moves.
Liliya remains beside him. She does not blink. She simply waits. And somehow, that is worse than anything she could have said.
The plaza stills. Behind him, the torn edge of an old poster flutters once. Even the pigeons are gone.
He remains rooted. He also waits, unsure who among them will move first. As if any action he takes can be used against him in a tribunal.
The young woman does not move either. Each passing moment thickens the air. Gravity itself seems to grow heavier.
Then the boy's gaze shifts to his pocket, where the result of his aptitude test is kept. He looks back to Liliya once again.
He is still thinking of a proper response. Nothing has been asked, and nothing has begun. This girl only appeared, and then she remained.
A breath slides from the transfer student. It is slow and quiet. But still, no movement is made. Not yet.
The plaza remains open. The monorail's path stretches beyond, past the concrete archway, past the banners, and rust-streaked lampposts. He is theoretically free.
But no turning follows.
The day is unfinished. The schedule remains unsorted. His purpose is still untouched.
Yet none of it matters anymore.
Her presence—silent, expressionless, absolute—rewrites gravity itself. Every other direction seems less like freedom and more like errors he cannot afford to make.
His feet are not frozen. But they refuse to wander.
"You're not going to say anything else?"
His voice comes out quietly.
One blink.
"I already did."
A long study of her face. Pale. Clean. Unflinching. She is not here to negotiate, only to retrieve what she claims is hers from the beginning.
"You're not giving me a choice."
"You already made it."
His breath catches somewhere in his throat. The weight continues to creep in, unnoticed.
It felt less like a choice and more like a conclusion.
Yet the boy does not gloat. He maintains his composure, already forecasting how events might unfold. It has become his mode of survival, especially in situations like this, which are tense, unreadable, and quietly decisive.
People like him only hope that no one notices them until it is too late.
Then a final glance sweeps once again across the plaza. Empty benches. Flickering lamplight. Windless silence where pigeons had fled.
The boy adjusts the strap of his bag.
Liliya sees this as a gesture of surrender. She finally steps forward after several long, grueling minutes that felt like forever. The transfer student follows, not because belief has taken root nor because an agreement has been reached, but because no other direction remains intact.
The paper is only a recommendation. It is still his fault for coming to the East Bloc in the first place. And at this moment, he does not have any solutions.
So he does the most logical thing he can think of at this moment.
He yields.
His steps fall into rhythm behind hers. The silence finally breaks.
And only then does it become clear. She has never asked for his name. She never needs to. For the first time, Liliya speaks not as a recruiter, but as an officer.
"Welcome, Comrade."