Time: 01:38 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – Revolutionary Club Headquarters, Meeting Room.
The second-year transfer student arrives in an unfamiliar room. He is not sure how he got here; everything had gone blank while he followed the dangerous terrifying woman he met back at the plaza.
It feels like an advanced form of abduction—one that removes agency so cleanly that the victim walks exactly where they are meant to go.
The first thing he notices is how cold the room feels.
Not merely the temperature—though the East Bloc's raw brutalist architecture traps no heat—but something deeper. Something that settles into the air. It is dense and unforgiving. It is the silence of rooms that have already passed their judgment. Air that holds its breath not from anticipation, but from aftermath.
The walls were red, though not uniformly so. They had been painted in sweeping, impatient strokes, leaving streaks and patches of uneven fervor. A revolutionary slogan clung to the corners, peeling like old skin. A fresh canvas stood near the window: a pigeon mid-flight, its claws wrapped around the pin of a grenade. Several filing cabinets leaned open like wounded soldiers beside a battered megaphone and a toppled stack of neglected flyers.
The only sounds in the chamber come from the brittle flicker of the dying ceiling bulbs and a kettle beginning to whistle in the corner. It is soft at first, then steadily rising—like something slowly unraveling.
The boy sits alone on a cold, metallic stool placed with mathematical precision near the empty stage of the room.
There are no desks, no clipboards, no documents to sign. Only him—positioned as if awaiting diagnosis. As if he is the final element in an unfinished formula. A specimen under review.
He does not speak, no one does. He is uncertain whether talking has been authorized.
Across from the lonely male student sit several young women, arranged behind a long meeting table marred by watermarks, ration slips, and ideological clutter—five of them. Their postures vary—some rigid, some relaxed—but their expressions do not. They never smile, they never blink; they only observe.
Each of them bears the crimson armband of the Revolutionary Club. Theirs are not faded like the banners on the wall. Their uniforms are exact, tailored, fortified by conviction. Their outerwear is properly buttoned and their collars unwrinkled. The room is cold, but none of them flinches.
They look as if they are waiting.
At the center sits the smallest figure in the room: Chairwoman Svetlana Zoryeva. Her compact frame rests on an ordinary classroom chair, only slightly elevated by a wooden crate and an extra cushion meant to make her appear taller and more authoritative. Her arms are crossed tightly over a worn, leather-bound quote book, its covers cracked from frequent use. One boot taps steadily against the wood, faint, precise, insistent. The polished brass buttons on her coat shimmer with impossible cleanliness. Her steel-gray eyes, cold and full of conviction, regard him as though slicing through each layer of ambiguity.
To her immediate right, near the corner, Vice Chairwoman Natasha Molotova exudes stillness. Wrapped in a pale beige trench coat and a scarf knotted with ceremonial care, she sits like a statue draped in state-approved wool. A teacup rests delicately in her hand, though it remains untouched. Her gaze has not moved since their would-be recruit entered. Her expression is not quite harsh, just quietly discerning—the look of a budget analyst reviewing a deficit.
Seated beside Natasha is the club's Strategic Coordinator, Mariya Malenkova. She hunches protectively over a battered patchwork laptop, her fingers dancing across the keys in rhythmic bursts. Her twin braids twitch with every keystroke. The rims of her glasses fog softly, whether from nerves or temperature is unclear. She spares only occasional glances toward their newest arrival, brief and efficient, as if merely confirming that he has not yet done anything requiring a report or recalibration.
To the left of Svetlana, slightly farther out, lounges the Minister of Propaganda, Irina Kuznetsova. She claims space as though the entire row were built solely for her. Her khaki bomber jacket bears remnants of past murals, haphazard streaks of paint and stenciled emblems. Her boots are kicked up, balanced with practiced carelessness. Her amber eyes glint with delight, chaotic, theatrical, hungry. Her smile is wide, open, and dangerous—the kind someone wears before proposing a riot disguised as an art exhibit.
And then there is the fifth.
Liliya Ivanova sits near the door, away from the rest of the girls. Her posture is deliberate. Arms folded with measured discipline. Her white gloves are immaculate. Boots aligned with silent precision. Her shadow stretches across the threshold like a drawn line.
Where the others have presence, the enforcer has something far more severe.
She is not participating in the meeting, she is guarding it.
He starts to feel discomfort as their collective gaze scrutinizes his very existence. The only relief he finds is allowing his eyes to settle on the bust of Lenin—wearing a bowler hat and goofy sunglasses. It makes the room feel a bit less oppressive.
He does not dare to look at Liliya, not after what happened back at the plaza. She brought him here. She said nothing along the way. His agency was violated.
He inhales slowly through his nose. The air feels dry, sterile, as if it were almost staged. Then exhales quietly and deliberately.
"I… I believe there has been a bit of a misunderstanding."
No one replies… yet.
"I wasn't looking for anything," he adds. "I didn't even know what this room was for. I was just passing through the plaza and then she—" he takes a quick glance at Liliya, then immediately turns away, regretting the eye contact, "—brought me in."
Still nothing. The air never shifts.
The Chairwoman tilts her head slightly.
"...And you followed?"
Her voice is soft; it lands like a rule.
He nods, unsure. "Yes."
Her expression does not change.
Natasha speaks next, her voice low and cool. "You do not look like a volunteer…"
"Because I'm not," he says quickly. "I didn't—"
"He is a transfer student," Liliya states, dropping the information like she is presenting decisive evidence. It is not loud—just fact.
Four pairs of eyes turn toward him.
Mariya freezes mid-keystroke. "Wait… really?"
Irina sits up straighter, her grin widening. "Ohhh. He's the one?"
"He arrived this morning," Liliya continues. "No club. No sponsor. No observer. Misfiled. Unprocessed. Unwatched."
Liliya turns her gaze back to her captive. Her smile is colder, making him even more uncomfortable.
"Unaligned. Unclaimed."
He gulps.
"Unaccounted."
Svetlana shifts in her chair—a gesture that feels like gathering momentum.
"You crossed the river."
He does not answer.
"You walked into this sector," the Chairwoman continues, her voice becoming lower, "especially during club recruitment week. With no flyer. No guide. No protection."
She lets the silence hold.
"Do you know what that makes you?"
He shakes his head. Then Svetlana raises her finger and points at him.
"A candidate."
Irina claps once, her boots landing back on the ground.
"Only someone who's completely out of their mind would find themselves alone in the middle of the East Bloc, especially during the first day of the semester. I already like him!" she declares with enthusiasm.
Mariya, meanwhile, pushes up her glasses.
"B-but he hasn't submitted anything. There's no form. No rubric. Not even a motivational intake worksheet—"
"He followed instructions," Liliya answers. "He followed me."
Natasha takes a sip of her tea.
"That is suspiciously efficient."
Svetlana steps off her high chair. Her boots meet the floor with a sound like punctuation.
"You are not here because you belong," she says. "You are here because no one else wants to claim you."
She leans over the table; her voice lowers further.
"And here at Kalin High, someone who has been uncategorized by the system is the most dangerous kind of person to be."
He does not respond, not because he lacks the answer, but because he no longer feels that answers are the currency of this room. They still have not asked for his name, and somehow he already knows they never will.
Near the corner of the room, the kettle has reached its boiling point. A soft whistle persists. No one moves to silence it.
Natasha lifts her teacup again. Her gaze is analytical, already searching for a way to salvage the situation. Her eyes never leave him.
Then she gently places her cup down.
"There is still the matter of intent," the Vice Chairwoman says at last.
Svetlana advances toward the stage where the boy sits.
"His intent is irrelevant. The system already failed him. The moment he walked in, he became one of us."
Natasha gives a single nod—not in agreement, but in acknowledgment.
"The kettle is boiling," she adds.
"Ignore it," Svetlana snaps her fingers. "We are making history."
But he can't ignore it. His throat feels dry. His hands are cold. He has not moved since he sat down.
His legs have gone numb. His thoughts blur into one repetitive question:
'What on earth is happening?'
Svetlana reaches the end of the table, close enough to nearly touch him. Her voice tightens.
She steps forward, raising a finger—not at the boy, but through him.
"Let the record show: I did not ask for a stray. I did not request a transfer. And I did not prepare a single page of induction material today because I was told by this school—by the system—that our club was irrelevant. That no one would come."
She lifts her chin, posture sharpened with righteous fervor.
"But you did."
He blinks once.
"By accident—" he begins.
"Silence," she snaps. "An accident is just fate without paperwork."
Svetlana turns to the others, arms flaring.
"Comrades, look at him. No club. No colors. No ideology. He is the living consequence of this school's decay. Dropped into our district like discarded paperwork. Unprocessed and unclaimed. Never touched by the polished rot of prestige clubs and monorail populism."
"I just followed a map," he mutters under his breath.
"And that map led you here," Svetlana thunders, facing him again, her steel-gray eyes bright with conviction. "To the last bastion of meaning in this crumbling ideological swamp."
She closes the remaining distance, her boots striking the floor with absolute finality as she locks eyes with him.
"Welcome to the Revolution."
The words crack the air like a gavel. Svetlana clenches her teeth and smiles—not from happiness, but from moral defiance.
Then her finger snaps toward the girl behind the laptop.
"Malenkova!"
Mariya jerks upright. "Y-yes! I—I'm Mariya Malenkova, Strategic Coordinator and… temporary custodian of morale metrics! I—I handle files and posters and… um, m-most of the food logistics during action drills—"
"She organizes chaos," the Chairwoman declares. "She is the reason our disasters happen on schedule."
"I also—I also run analytics," the anxious strategist adds, breath catching. "And I manage the print queue. If you need forms, I—uh—"
"That is enough." Svetlana cuts in.
Mariya freezes, blinking rapidly. She gives a stiff nod and sinks back into her seat, fingers hovering over the keyboard, tapping the laptop's edge instead. Too restless to type. Too flustered to speak.
Svetlana's arm is already shifting.
"Kuznetsova!"
The redhead shoots up like she's spring-loaded. A grin splits her face—bright, eager, unhinged. Her monobloc chair clatters behind her.
"Irina Kuznetsova," she announces, slamming a fist on the table hard enough to rattle mugs. "Minister of Propaganda. The Voice of the People. Painter of Spirit. Harbinger of Controlled Mayhem. I make art that speaks louder than bureaucracy and burns hotter than cafeteria curry!"
"You're banned from the chemistry supply…" Mariya mutters, shrinking behind her laptop.
Irina waves this off with theatrical dismissal.
"We shape minds! And sometimes walls! And this morning—a roof! You cannot censor the flames of truth!"
She pivots sharply and points at the boy, eyes blazing like she has been waiting her entire life for this moment.
"Revolution is not a policy—it's a performance. And, comrade, you have gotten yourself a front-row seat!"
"I… I really just wanted to eat lunch," he murmurs, leaning subtly away.
But no one listens.
Svetlana resumes pacing, arms sweeping with rising intensity.
"You now sit in the only club that still believes in consequence. In struggle. In resistance to apathy, conformity, and vending-machine monopoly. We are not a hobby. We are not a brand. We are the last breath of conviction—wrapped in concrete, rationed ink, and reallocated printer toner."
Natasha sips her tea. The kettle whistle gnaws at her composure.
Mariya types frantically, as though her sanity depends on it.
Irina is air-painting a ten-meter mural with wild gestures.
"We speak when others whisper. We endure when others whine. We protest when others livestream!"
Svetlana whirls back toward him, her coat catching the air.
"And now fate has delivered us a soul who is not claimed by latte politics or esports imperialism."
"I'm not that unclaimed—" he begins.
"You are now," she interrupts. "Provisionally. Irrevocably. Ours."
Silence descends again.
The newcomer's heart rate spikes, triggering the beginnings of a fight-or-flight instinct.
His gaze drifts across the room—past banners, the mural, the flickering bulbs, the dusty cabinets, the rising whistle of the kettle, and the stale smell of paper and evaporated ink.
This is not a recruitment.
This is a tribunal.
Svetlana stands firm, arms crossed, as though judgment has already been passed.
Mariya types like a court stenographer documenting his sentencing.
Irina frames him with her fingers, already imagining a trial portrait.
And Liliya—still unmoving—watches like an executioner awaiting her cue.
His palms grow damp despite the cold. A steady pulse throbs in his neck.
This is no club. No circle of friends. Certainly no student faction.
This is something else. Something structured. Something waiting.
The second-year transfer student still cannot move.
He has been abducted, physically and ideologically, and his captors are not misfits nor delinquents.
They are revolutionaries. And they have been filing against the system.
This was supposed to be his first day. He expected the worst: orientation issues, maybe a misplaced ID card.
But this…
This is far worse than anything he anticipated.