A clear, sunny day stood over the ruins—whether of a castle or a temple, it was hard to tell—washed in warm light. Above a spot where almost no stone remained, something luminous hovered in the air. Small, spherical, it rotated slowly in place. Three beings were watching it.

  The smallest of them couldn’t hold back. Carefully, it began climbing down the debris, stretching out a hand—as if hoping the thing could be taken. Step by step, slower and slower, closer and closer. When the creature reached as near as it could, its hand passed straight through the glowing sphere.

  It froze.

  Then it closed its fingers.

  To its surprise, it worked.

  The creature pulled its hand back. From the luminous something emerged a perfectly clean human hand. The sphere flared brighter, began to pulse. The harder it pulled, the more intense the light became. It swelled, blinding. It became impossible to see anything, and all three squeezed their eyes shut.

  There was a surge of energy.

  The one who had been pulling was thrown backward—slammed into the ruins with brutal force. The other two were also hurled away, tumbling down the pile of rubble.

  From the glowing thing itself, a figure fell out.

  A flash drive?

  The thought flickered.

  Did they kill him?

  Face down on the stone lay a human. He wore a dirty but elegant suit. Sneakers.

  Why does everything hurt so much… and why can’t I see anything?

  Pull it together. Get up. Rub your eyes…

  He began moving his arms, trying to push himself up, but every motion sent waves of searing pain through him. At the same time, the creature that had pulled him from the rift groaned—it too was trying to rise.

  “Who’s screaming?.. Who are you… guards?..” the man rasped.

  He tried again to brace himself, and at that moment the creature that had dragged him out was already sitting upright, staring at him.

  “And who the hell are you, pretty boy?” it said roughly.

  “Stasyan, have you completely lost it?” came a voice from behind the ruins. “You almost got us killed, and now you’re talking to yourself?”

  “Take a look at the pretty boy I pulled out of the rift,” Stasyan said. “We’ll sell him for a fortune.”

  The man finally managed to get onto his knees. He raised his hands to his face and started rubbing his eyes.

  “Just so you know, pretty boy, we’re not carrying you,” Stasyan added. “Long walk ahead.”

  Two more figures appeared from behind the rubble pile. When they saw the man, they froze.

  “Well damn,” said the taller one. “That’s one hell of a catch, Stasyan. He’s gotta be at least eight hundred years old.”

  When his vision cleared, the man saw three silhouettes: a short, stocky one sitting on the ruins, and two taller ones—one of them nearly eight feet tall. Blinking, he noticed armor that looked as if it had been assembled from pieces of an ancient car. The seated one’s skin had a bluish tint.

  “What, pretty boy—surprised?” Stasyan grinned. “Yeah, in your time, there weren’t any like us. You were all the same color.”

  “In my time?..” the man repeated. “Eight hundred years?”

  “Yeah. Give or take three hundred,” Stasyan replied calmly.

  Looking around, the man saw overgrown ruins. Bluish crystals jutted from the stone, glinting in the sunlight. He studied the others more closely: one looked mostly human, except for green eyes; the tallest was gaunt, blue-skinned, with a crooked jaw and protruding teeth.

  The man tried to stand. It took effort. He straightened, cried out in pain, doubled over—then forced himself upright again.

  Before them stood a man of imposing bearing: straight back, squared shoulders, blue eyes, light brown hair. A dark blue tuxedo and sneakers made him stand out starkly against the ruins.

  The creature of average height drew a weapon—something like a revolver, except where a cylinder should have been, there was a red crystal.

  “Don’t move, pretty boy. Who are you?” he shouted.

  “And why do you care, if you’re planning to sell me anyway?” the man shot back.

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  “I need to know what I’m selling. Might turn out you’re useful,” the creature smirked. “You armed?”

  “Call me Dima. And do I look armed to you?” he replied.

  “Dima, huh. Call me Lena,” the creature said. “The tall one’s Borya. You already know Stasyan.”

  Dima suddenly burst out laughing, doubling over.

  “That name your mom gave you, Lenochka?”

  The answer was a gunshot.

  A red clump of energy flew past Dima’s hand and slammed into the ruins.

  “How dare you, you little shit!” Lena screamed. “Keep that up and you’ll be tongue-less by morning!”

  Dima kept laughing, nearly losing his balance.

  The second shot passed so close that a jolt ran along his arm. The laughter broke off—but turned into an uncontrollable snicker.

  “Alright, alright… but that’s not the point! EIGHT HUNDRED YEARS!”

  “What’s so funny about my name?!” Lena roared.

  “It’s a woman’s name,” Dima said, barely holding it together. “Better tell me where I am. A second ago I was watching a Counter-Strike stream.”

  “It’s a man’s name!” Lena snapped. “And you look like a girl yourself in that little suit!”

  “This suit—”

  “My name is a symbol of strength and power!” Lena cut him off, pacing faster. “We’ll sell you, buy weapons, build a camp, and punish people like you!”

  “Wow, Lenochka, you crown yourself king already?” Dima smirked.

  “YOU SON OF A—!”

  Lena lunged forward, swinging the pistol.

  He tried to smash Dima over the head. Dima moved before he had time to think—his body reacted on its own. Fear hit him a split second later, but he’d already slipped aside. The next moment he was behind Lena, slammed a fist into his shoulder, knocking the pistol free, then jabbed blindly at his neck.

  Lena collapsed to the ground with a groan, trying to move—but his body wouldn’t obey.

  Dima barely had time to breathe when he noticed Stasyan and Borya charging at him, shouting. Stasyan was swinging a metal club. Borya ran with something resembling an ancient rifle, but didn’t fire.

  Stasyan was closer.

  He hurled the club.

  It struck Dima in the leg.

  Pain and shock sent him crashing down, but almost instantly he lunged forward, tackling Stasyan to the ground. Borya was already close. Flipping Stasyan onto his back, Dima delivered several fast, clumsy punches to his face. Then, bracing on his good leg, he sprang up—almost jumping—and with all his strength kicked Stasyan in the chin with his injured leg.

  Stasyan lost consciousness.

  “You vicious baaaastard!” Borya howled and charged forward.

  Dima instinctively grabbed the club. It turned out to be unexpectedly light, fitting perfectly in his hand. He didn’t even have time to think—he just swung.

  Borya jumped, raising the rifle over his head, trying to strike as he came down—missed. He landed awkwardly, barely keeping his balance.

  The club traced a wide arc.

  The blow landed square in his face.

  Teeth flew out. His jaw cracked. Borya collapsed, unconscious.

  Still not fully aware of himself, Dima slowly turned.

  Lena, swaying, was reaching for his pistol.

  Dima reacted automatically—adrenaline shoved his body forward before thought could catch up. He lunged, ripped the weapon from Lena’s hands, and aimed it at him.

  Lena stared back with hatred, but had no intention of admitting defeat.

  “Well then, Lenochka,” Dima said softly, almost gently, forcing a crooked smile. Pain was clear on his face, radiating from his leg. “Looks like you know a lot. Why don’t you tell me where I am and how I got here. Because so far this feels like some kind of colorful Fallout.”

  “You’re a slave I was going to sell,” Lena rasped.

  “Wrong answer,” Dima said calmly. “Listen, I don’t like being rough. I get enough of that during matches. Either we part ways, or you help me. Maybe I’ll even help you. How does that sound?”

  “You’re… where you always were,” Lena forced out. “We pulled you out of the rift. Looks like it was temporary. People like you—we usually sell. They pay well.”

  “So…” Dima narrowed his eyes. “I’m at home?”

  “I don’t know what this place used to be called. The city was something like… Pitongrad… or something like that…”

  Suddenly, Lena exploded.

  “AND I HATE YOU!”

  He yanked out a knife and lunged forward.

  A quiet shot rang out.

  Lena collapsed to the ground. A dark stain spread across his face. He wasn’t breathing.

  Dima lowered the pistol.

  “So that’s what it’s like,” he whispered. “Killing someone… We could’ve been friends. And now—what am I supposed to be?”

  Stasyan and Borya didn’t move. Both were unconscious.

  Dima slowly sat down on a stone overgrown with moss. Pain still pulsed through his leg, but his thoughts felt heavier.

  Mom. Dad. Friends…

  What the hell even happened?

  Was I exiled?.. Or did something so fucked up happen that I survived by sheer accident?

  He sat there for a long time.

  Stasyan stirred.

  Dima looked up.

  Stasyan opened his eyes, saw Dima, and jerked back.

  “You’re a monster…” he muttered. “How did you even… do that…”

  Dima just stared at him in silence, a crooked smile on his face.

  Stasyan looked around, noticed the bodies, and went pale.

  “Lenochka…” he began.

  “Dead,” Dima said calmly. “Tried to kill me. I tried to talk it out. But you know—women don’t like to listen.”

  “What women?.. And Borya?..” Stasyan asked, almost crying. “He’s just a kid… he’s only forty-eight…”

  “Lost some teeth, but he was breathing,” Dima replied.

  Stasyan crawled over to Borya.

  Borya wasn’t breathing.

  His skull was split open.

  Stasyan hunched over, struggling to hold back tears.

  “So now you’ll kill me too…” he whispered.

  “I never intended to kill anyone,” Dima said firmly. “You attacked first. I’m sorry.”

  “So that means I’m your slave now…” Stasyan muttered. “I just hope you’ll sell me for a fair price.”

  Dima let out a tired sigh.

  “Who was he to you?”

  “My neighbor’s son…” Stasyan answered quietly. “After our village was burned down, we survived together…”

  “My condolences,” Dima said. His eyes were full of questions, but he decided to leave them for later.

  He looked around the ruins.

  “I probably stand out too much dressed like this, don’t I?” he asked at last. “If I take Lena’s clothes—do you mind?”

  “Your right,” Stasyan replied dully. “He won’t be needing them anymore.”

  Dima removed his tuxedo-like clothes and threw on the cloak, hiding the suit beneath. The sun was already leaning toward the horizon.

  “It’s getting dark already?” he asked. “Is there anywhere to stay the night?”

  “Under a tree,” Stasyan shrugged. “We’ll make a fire and sleep… if we can.”

  Dima nodded. It was still hard for him to grasp what was happening at all.

  “Then lead the way. We’ll sleep. I need time to process all this… I’d rather not start looking for living people in shelters.”

  “Shelters?” Stasyan repeated. “Never heard of those.”

  They climbed higher onto the ruins.

  From the top, Dima saw a shattered city—no intact buildings, only vast fields of stone swallowed by greenery.

  “My God…” he whispered. “What happened here…”

  Without a word, Stasyan led him toward the forest.