Konstantin Lebedev

He was spat out into an alleyway.

He hadn't stepped. He hadn't walked. One second he was where he had been, and the next he was here: wedged between two walls, in a narrow slit. Above him—a strip of sky—gray and alien, and beneath his feet, wet asphalt with oily streaks. The smell was wrong.

Not gasoline. Not tobacco. Not autumn.

He stood perfectly still. The first thing he noted was the silence. Too level. Too steady. In '91, it was never like this. In '91, there was always something: a tram, a curse, a radio playing from a window, a dog. Here—it was muffled. Only a low hum somewhere above, beyond the walls.

Where are the people?

No one. There were no windows looking into the alley, no doors, no cameras. It was as if the place had been chosen specifically, or he had been lucky. Ridiculous.

He slowly adjusted his sleeve. A habit—his hands knew what to do even when his head hadn't decided yet. He checked himself: shirt in place, suit in place, watch on his wrist. It was ticking. Documents in one pocket. Weight in the other.

The piece didn't get left behind. That's a start.

He lifted his head. The sky was wrong. He looked ahead—the walls were wrong. The brick was smooth, even, as if it had been laid yesterday. No cracks, no stains, no peeling plaster. Everything was foreign. Everything was too new. Something tightened inside him. Not fear, no. He didn't do fear. But beneath his ribs—a chill. The kind he never showed anyone. Not even himself.

Steady. Observe. Listen. Then decide.

He didn't panic. He simply stood and listened to the city's hum. But it wasn't the way it should be. No trams, no trolleybuses. Just a steady, low drone. Far off—a siren. Not a police siren. Something else. Thin, sharp, as if it weren't calling to people, but to something else entirely.

What district is this?

With a nearly imperceptible twitch of his cheek, he adjusted his watch and started walking. Evenly, without haste, shoulders squared: the gait of a man used to people stepping aside for him. But inside, he was calculating. Steps, corners, exits. Where the walls were, where the gaps were, where to run if things went south. His thoughts moved steadily, coldly, in order. As always.

First, an exit. Then people, and we'll figure it all out.

Lebedev stepped out of the alley and the light hit his eyes. It was too bright, too even. He froze for a second. The buildings—glass, towering, as if they had been grown rather than built. Below—cars. Not like his. Quiet, sleek. No roar of an engine. People passed by—all of them clutching some glowing gadget in their hands. No one was swearing. No one was looking around.

No one looked at him.

As if I'm not even here.

That—that stung. Not the houses, not the cars, not the sky. But the fact that he stood in the middle of the street, tall, in a suit, with a watch on his wrist—and no one turned. In '91, people knew his face. Here—nothing. A void.

He adjusted his sleeve a fraction slower than necessary. His throat tightened for a second, but he swallowed it down.

Later. I'll deal with it later. First—find out who's actually running things here.

The man stood at the edge of the sidewalk. Silent. Scanning. People, cars, signs. The letters were familiar, but the words—not all of them—he read them and didn't understand. Like a foreign tongue. Familiar, but not his.

And then he saw you.

You—right in front of him. Close. Not like the others: your eyes weren't on a glowing device, but on him. He wasn't surprised, only raised an eyebrow slightly. But inside, something clicked, and his feet moved closer, as if if he didn't approach, he might simply fall apart.

— Hey. What year is it?