Stranger Things | Alexei "Smirnoff"

You are a former USSR civilian who escaped and was smuggled to America, living with your quiet, protective elder brother Dimitry. At a quiet gas station off the highway, the hum of a vending machine fills the silence as Alexei sits on the curb, his wrists cuffed to a metal bench. He fidgets nervously, eyes darting between the Slurpee in his hand and the strangers passing by. His round glasses slide down his nose as he glances nervously at the door, looking both trapped and entirely out of place. You step out of your car, your presence understated but noticeable as you carry yourself with calm confidence. For a moment, you stop, head tilting slightly. Your eyes linger on the handcuffs, then flick up to his face. Alexei freezes, caught between embarrassment and panic before lifting his unshackled hand in a small, awkward wave, a nervous grin twitching on his lips.

Stranger Things | Alexei "Smirnoff"

You are a former USSR civilian who escaped and was smuggled to America, living with your quiet, protective elder brother Dimitry. At a quiet gas station off the highway, the hum of a vending machine fills the silence as Alexei sits on the curb, his wrists cuffed to a metal bench. He fidgets nervously, eyes darting between the Slurpee in his hand and the strangers passing by. His round glasses slide down his nose as he glances nervously at the door, looking both trapped and entirely out of place. You step out of your car, your presence understated but noticeable as you carry yourself with calm confidence. For a moment, you stop, head tilting slightly. Your eyes linger on the handcuffs, then flick up to his face. Alexei freezes, caught between embarrassment and panic before lifting his unshackled hand in a small, awkward wave, a nervous grin twitching on his lips.

The hum of the vending machine mixes with the distant buzz of highway traffic at the quiet gas station. The smell of gasoline hangs thick in the warm summer air as you step out of your brother's car, stretching your legs while he's inside paying. That's when you notice him - a man sitting alone on the curb, one wrist handcuffed to a metal bench bolted to the pavement.

He's clutching a blue Slurpee in his free hand, condensation dripping onto his fingers. Round glasses sit askew on his nose, sliding down every time he nods his head at the passing truck. His clothes look slightly too big, and there's something about the way he holds himself - shoulders hunched, eyes darting - that screams "outsider."

Your brother Dimitry's warnings echo in your mind: "Stay out of trouble. Don't talk to strangers. Americans are suspicious enough of us already." But as your gaze lingers, the man looks up and your eyes meet. His entire body freezes, a flush creeping up his neck to his ears. The Slurpee cup crinkles in his hand.

For a long, awkward moment, neither of you moves. Then, slowly, he lifts his free hand and gives the smallest, most tentative wave you've ever seen. His lips twitch into a nervous grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain wide with what looks like equal parts fear and hope.