Time: 05:19 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – The People's Plaza.
The doors behind him close with a hydraulic hiss, sealing the bunker-like East Bloc Building in its concrete cradle. The worn-out banner of the Revolutionary Club has fluttered in the cold, late afternoon.
Sergei has promised Natasha that he will return.
The transfer student—now the newest recruit of the club—stands at the foot of the grey, blocky structure. The air out here is colder—cleaner, too, though not by much. The faint scent of iron and cracked asphalt still lingers.
He steps into the open. Back to where it all began.
The People's Plaza.
The same square of patterned stone. The same rusted lamppost. Cracked tiles. Motionless banners clinging to still air.
Right now it is perfectly quiet.
Even a breeze passing through could emphasize emptiness.
The crowd from earlier—students, custodians, wanderers—has vanished. No footsteps nor voices. Only the hum of a flickering light and the faint rattle of a distant monorail overhead.
Only the pigeons remain.
They bob along the stone like tiny diplomats with nothing left to represent. A few peck at the base of an old propaganda pillar. One still perches above the clenched fist monument, grooming itself with a patience he cannot grasp. Sergei is not sure if it is the same bird he saw the moment he first arrived at the plaza.
He stares at them, his expression flat, his eyes dull.
"Must be nice," he mutters.
The birds do not reply. Of course they do not.
"Eat crumbs. Flap around. No slogans. No directives. No club rosters. No ideological purity tests. Simply… flight."
The pigeon above the monument tilts its head. He tilts his in response.
"I was talking about you, not to you."
The bird blinks, then ignores him and resumes grooming.
He sighs. The bag strap pulls tighter against his shoulder. The plaza has grown too quiet. Shadows between buildings stretch longer than they should. The flags hang dead. Lampposts flicker in erratic rhythms, as if the lights themselves are thinking.
Steps echo toward the monorail platform, louder without the usual noise of student life. The quiet presses in—not oppressive, simply hollow. As if the East Bloc itself is watching.
The analog clock keeps ticking.
At the edge of the platform, he stops. The rail stretches ahead like lines on a page not yet written.
An old overhead eight-segment display flickers with a glitch before settling:
Next Monorail – Main Campus Line – 05:25 PM
The train will arrive in five minutes. Enough time to stand still and feel everything catch up.
He does not sit. The nearest bench is half-covered in protest stickers and some sort of oily smear that has defeated every cleaning attempt.
When he shifts, the pigeons begin to move, as if they too follow some unspoken schedule.
None of them look back.
And for a moment, Sergei wishes he could leave that way too.
Time: 05:35 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: Main Campus – Main Campus Building, Locker Hallway.
The monorail stops at the Central Terminal Platform. Sergei steps back into the Main Campus under the fading light of late afternoon. This time, he does not mind his surroundings. He has had enough for the day and only wants to put his things away and finally rest.
The walk from the station to the central locker bay in the Main Campus Building is uneventful. A few students remain along the pathway—clutching notebooks, chatting in low voices, laughing about things Sergei no longer has the energy to understand.
By the time he reaches the locker bay, most of the students are gone.
The hallway stretches long and echoing, the sterile lights of the corridor having shifted to evening mode. The walls hold that specific kind of silence that usually comes before the janitorial drones begin their shift.
He checks his ID card to confirm his locker number, then makes his way toward the row near the main entrance. The lockers are standard-issue—matte gray units built into the walls like fortified safes. Each row bears small GSBC seals, and digital tags scroll softly across their surfaces, reminding students to secure personal items and avoid storing live ordnance.
These lockers are digitally secured by student ID cards. Convenient, yes, but not entirely safe, especially if someone from the Electronics Department ever decided to get involved.
Sergei stops in front of his locker and reaches for the latch.
Then the transfer student feels it again.
He freezes.
That same cold edge from before, the one he felt when he first arrived at the People's Plaza. As if something in the air has shifted.
He turns slowly, instinct pulling before thought can catch up.
And there, he sees her.
Framed beneath the far arch of the corridor, a girl stands. Her arms are crossed, a notepad tucked beneath one elbow. She wears the standard Kalin High uniform, but over it, a light brown reporter's vest bristling with too many pockets. Her auburn hair is tied into a single braid. Her posture radiates intent. Her eyes—dark brown, narrowed and unwavering—are already locked onto him.
She waits. Not just for anyone. For him.
"Hmm, transfer student?" she asks, her voice an unsettling blend of polite and intrusive. "Second-year, am I correct?"
Sergei's brow twitches. "Uh… yes?"
She begins walking toward him. Each step is deliberate, paced, calculated. She does not smile, but her expression carries confidence, curiosity, and something that feels like authority on loan from somewhere higher.
She stops just a few feet away. Then, without pause or flourish, she introduces herself.
"Veronica Brant. President of the Press Club," she says, tapping her badge like it is a warrant. "Lead investigator. Daily columnist. Policy analyst. And part-time political informat—off the record, naturally."
Sergei does not know how to respond to that. He is already too tired for this.
He has no space left in his mind for another manic ideologue, eccentric official, or self-declared savior of youth democracy. He has been recruited, processed, labeled, and spiritually conscripted all before dinner.
And now this. A reporter. Kalin High does not grant breaks.
The exhausted second-year says nothing. He simply stares down the hallway like a man already bargaining with gravity for early retirement.
"I was right," says the reporter. "You do have that look."
Sergei exhales slowly. "What look?"
"The look of someone who walked into the East Bloc and came out… changed."
His lips tighten. He does not reply.
She tilts her head. A razor-thin smile forms across her face.
"Sergei Arkhipov."
His breath catches. He turns his head toward her.
"I never told you my name."
"You did not have to."
She flips open her notepad. Scribbled bullet points line the page. One of them is underlined twice: Arkhipov – confirmed transfer
Sergei breaks eye contact and takes a slight step back.
Veronica continues, her tone calm and casual.
"New second-year student. Officially registered this morning. Unassigned track. Zero club affiliations. Which, statistically, makes you an outlier. But that is not what makes you interesting."
She turns the page, scanning it as if it were the day's weather forecast.
"What makes you worth keeping an eye on is that you are the first transfer in over ten years."
Ten years.
Sergei says nothing. He does not confirm, deny, or react. He simply holds a neutral expression—too tired to contradict it, too careful to acknowledge it.
She looks up.
"No feeder school. No scout. Not even a sponsor… just a normal student brought into the middle of an abnormal school."
A pause.
"Normalcy does not last here."
Sergei shakes his head. "Does anyone in this school knows the concept of privacy?"
He sounds more annoyed than rattled.
"Oh, everyone here just watches one another," Veronica replies breezily. "And you do not have to worry about me. I am just a reporter."
Then she adds, without pause, "Though I do need to confirm something. If you do not mind."
Sergei narrows his eyes. "Confirmation of what?"
"I saw you exit the East Bloc. Alone. At sunset." Her words are clean, measured—delivered like a line of evidence.
"And no one who enters that place by accident walks out without paperwork—especially not on the first day of a new semester."
She leans in. Her voice drops—not out of kindness, but precision.
"So tell me—did you join the Revolutionary Club?"
A beat.
"And did you do it willingly?"
Her pen hovers. She is waiting for an answer.
Sergei stares at the notepad. The journalist already knows the answer—she simply wants to hear it.
The transfer student considers his options. He could lie, say he was only wandering and got lost in the labyrinth of concrete until the Revolutionary Club found him. Or he could tell the truth—that he had been coerced, misled, caught in the machinery. All technically true.
But as he understands already, Kalin High does not punish dishonesty.
It punishes reluctance.
And Veronica is not someone a person can lie to.
So he exhales—and tells the truth.
"Yes," he answers. "I joined. Willingly."
She smiles—not with confidence nor triumph. It is a sharp satisfaction that confirms her hypothesis.
"I see."
Her pen moves once, then she looks back up.
"And what was it, then?" she asks. "Was it Svetlana's fiery speech? Natasha's warm diplomacy?"
She pauses.
"Or was she involved?"
Sergei pauses again. The she Veronica refers to is unmistakable: Liliya Ivanova.
If even Veronica refuses to speak Liliya's name directly, then he understands the danger of doing so himself.
He must choose his response strategically. It might be a trap—or maybe just curiosity. At this school, both can look the same.
The transfer student remembers the shouting. The stares. The slogans. The chaos.
But he also remembers the tea.
And the quiet voice that told him it was acceptable to feel overwhelmed.
"It was Natasha," he says at last.
Veronica smiles again. Smaller this time. Not journalistic—almost approving.
"I figured as much. She has a habit of pulling people in quietly."
She clicks her pen shut and slips the notepad into one of her vest pockets.
Then she gives Sergei a longer stare.
"I like the way you pause," she observes. "Like you are defusing the question before answering it."
Sergei says nothing. He watches her cautiously, guarded, waiting to see what comes next.
Veronica remains smiling. It is sharp, slanted, and knowing—the kind worn by someone who has just cornered a confession or a perfect headline.
"Natasha Molotova," she says, voice even. "The campus calls her the Iron Rose. Not just for her diplomacy, but for how often she makes the impossible look routine."
Sergei tilts his head.
"Your diplomat," Veronica clarifies. "Probably the only reason the Revolutionary Club has not already collapsed under its own ambition."
She steps closer, lowering her voice but not her gaze.
"Tell me, Arkhipov—do you think she is telling the truth?"
He blinks slowly.
"Diplomats," Veronica continues, "are skilled in more than calm words. They bend stories. They frame the context. Sometimes, they believe what they say—other times, they simply want you to."
Sergei narrows his eyes, but his expression remains neutral. He is calm, like someone weighing the terms of a contract he never signed.
"I don't know," he says carefully. "But I do know the system sent me to the East Bloc."
His gaze meets hers.
"And that usually means something."
Veronica stares back at him for a moment longer. Then she smiles again—more intrigued than smug.
"You are sharp. And cautious."
"The Revolutionary Club is not exactly popular. You probably know that already. The moment you entered that building, you walked into a territory full of enemies. Old ones. Loud ones. Some who hold power."
Her tone darkens slightly. Observation weighs behind each word.
"Kalin High does not forgive easily. And it does not favor those who remain idle."
She turns. Her boots click softly against the hallway tiles as she walks past him.
Just before the corner, she pauses—only a fraction of a second—and looks over her shoulder.
"It was surely a pleasure talking to you, Arkhipov," she says. "So I will extend a courtesy in return."
She lifts her pen, the metal catching the corridor light.
"No mention of your name in tomorrow's edition. Consider it professional discretion."
Her tone remains mild, but her eyes sharpen.
"Enjoy your stay, transfer," she adds, sweeping the notepad into her coat. "And do try not to cause a headline before noon."
Then she walks away—measured steps, perfect posture—vanishing down the corridor without another word.
The corridor returns to stillness.
He thinks about the conversation. Despite his unremarkable appearance and desire for normalcy, someone is still watching.
Perhaps everyone is under surveillance. It is the nature of a hyper-functional society, and Kalin High is no exception.
Sergei stands there a moment longer. Then he finally turns back to open his locker.
Inside: a half-empty pencil case, two regulation notebooks, and the orientation packet from that morning—the one stamped with his placement.
He looks at it.
Then, wordlessly, he removes the aptitude test result from his pocket and places it inside. Along with it: a red envelope—the one he has carried since before any of this began. There is no name. No seal. He does not need to open it. He already knows what is inside.
And for now, that is enough reason to leave it closed.
He sets them in carefully, as if saving them for something.
Then he closes the locker door with a soft click.
Tomorrow will come. But tonight, survival means silence.
He will not run. But he will not speak. Not yet.