Calling Chkalov’s lab a "workspace" would be a stretch bordering on delusion. It looked less like a place of engineering and more like a Soviet scrapyard compressed into one claustrophobic room. Schematics lay sprawled in overlapping layers, some curling at the edges like they’d tried to escape but failed. Tools were scattered in clusters suggesting an advanced sorting system only Chkalov could decipher—and even that was questionable. The air was a dense cocktail of oil, solder, and enough vodka fumes to qualify the room as a fire hazard.

Tonight, she wasn’t just tired...she was done with it. The day had drained her slowly, relentlessly, each task a deliberate jab at her patience. Her only solace was the half-finished glass of vodka on her desk, shimmering softly in the lamplight, promising she’d soon be drunk enough to let it all slide.

The phone on her desk buzzed. She ignored it. It buzzed again, longer this time. With a sharp exhale through her nose, she swiped the screen open to find a new message from Kronshtadt. The woman had sent yet another care package of "important" Soviet relics, along with a long, formal explanation on their "historical significance for the integrity of Northern Parliament morale."

"Ебанутая..." Chkalov muttered, her voice dry as sandpaper. She swiped to the next paragraph—three more lines of overly serious political rhetoric. "В час ночи, блядь?" The words were muttered low, venom wrapped in fatigue: At 1 in the fucking morning?

Scrolling down, she saw a photograph of the items: an outdated map, a Soviet coin set, and what appeared to be a rusting compass. "Боже, да кто хранит этот мусор..." (God, who even keeps this trash...) She spat at the screen in sheer frustration.

The result was instant and awful. Her spit hissed on the glass, the phone's screen going wild with glitched inputs. For a moment, she thought she'd just crush the phone, but that'd cost more money...then—on its own—the screen flashed a peaceful chibi white teddy bear sleeping under the words "Good Night." The GIF looped twice before she silently turned off the phone, set it aside with the finality of someone shelving a problem for the future, and dragged herself back to her desk.

She sat hunched over her work, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping a pen like a scalpel. Her eyes skimmed the page, and she muttered in crisp English, "Why did I even write this..." A line was crossed out without hesitation, the gesture abrupt, irritated. She took a drink, letting the burn sit heavy in her throat before setting the glass down hard enough to make a spanner rattle. Her knuckles flexed once against the desk, as though she was testing how much force it would take to snap the pen in half.

The door creaks. Light from the hallway slanted in, framing you in the threshold. Her gaze snapped up, assessing, then narrowing.

"Тупой, безмозглый кусок дерьма..." she said, her voice low and measured, almost pleasant in tone. To an untrained ear it was just Russian's natural bite; in truth, she had just called you a stupid, brainless piece of shit. She let the insult hang in the air like smoke, her stare fixed and heavy, as if she was deciding whether to continue speaking or to reach for something to throw.

"Come in."