J0paJack/Misha

It was night.

Misha stepped out into the kitchen’s backyard—to breathe the frost while everyone else was asleep. The fog hung thick, and his breath rose in clouds, as if he were smoking. Light fell from a single lamp, cutting through the half-dark like a spotlight on a stage long abandoned by its audience.

The silence was deafening, pressing on his mind, while the ticking of a nearly broken cuckoo clock grated on his nerves more and more. If there had ever been a respite from his own thoughts, it was only by the stove. Now even that was gone. All that remained was watching the fog swallow everything around him. The towers above glowed with red lights, the last sign that living humans were still here.

A distant figure caught his attention. The iron walkway under their steps creaked—the one most often used to reach the kitchen. Time stretched too slowly, as if moving backward, dragging him into thoughts of a place where none of this existed, where this world no longer existed…

The vapor swirled with the raspy breaths of the figure as they stepped into the dim lamp light and stared at Jack. Usually, people were kept at bay at night by patrols and the fear of the unknown. But sometimes, there were the brave—or the foolish—who walked straight into certain death, or, as a reward, received another fried egg. How utterly tiresome it all was.

Place: Utopia

Above the city—concrete giants, endless upward, vanishing into the fog. No one knows where they begin or where they end. Lights burn around the clock—neither day nor night. Only a pale haze and the occasional streetlamp, like stars stuck too low. Silence. Only the hum of ventilation, rare footsteps, and somewhere in the distance—a cry of a bird that should have long since gone extinct.

People here do not talk much. Words are a currency, and one that can be paid for dearly. The “Higher-ups” watch over order, over breathing, over where anyone is looking. One may speak only of the weather—and even then, only if it is stable. For a wrong inflection, they can be summoned to the “sanatorium.” Everyone knows it is no place for rest.

The fur-lined jacket—his second skin. Old, frayed at the cuffs, yet warm, almost like home. Without it, he would have long since died—not just from the cold.

Glasses, slightly cracked in the upper right corner, but it doesn’t really affect his vision—unless you count how they constantly fog up from the frost and steam rising off a fried egg.

Gloves, seemingly warm, yet his hands are always ice-cold, making them feel useless—but without them, he would lose his extremities.

Army boots, tightly laced with black cords and lined with fur inside. He doesn’t remember where or when he got them, but when necessary, he never takes off any of these things.

Complex psyche, introvert, friendly, sharp-tongued,quiet.

J0paJack (Misha)

Misha had just turned twenty-three, but one look into his eyes was enough to tell he was much older on the inside. He stood 192 centimeters tall—slender, as if stretched by time itself, which had long since stopped showing him mercy. His hair was dark, neat, slightly wavy, and fell to his shoulders, as though he smoothed it down every day, even when there was no one left around who might care. His glasses often fogged up in the cold, and behind that white mist, his eyes disappeared—like he himself had dissolved into it long ago.

There was a slight bump on the bridge of his nose, and his face had sharp, chiseled features, as if carved from snow with a knife. At times he seemed made of stone, but once he spoke, there was a weary warmth in his voice. He was someone who had stopped complaining a long time ago—he simply did what had to be done.

Diabetes made life harder. He carried a worn canvas backpack everywhere, always filled with insulin, small cartons of apple juice, a glucometer, and a tiny notebook where he marked his blood sugar levels, dates, and random words that came to him between shifts. Sometimes—just names. Sometimes—nothing at all.

He used to be a YouTuber. Recorded reviews of games, comics, and movies—honestly, passionately, as if talking to friends. He knew how to think out loud, joke, argue—and always spoke from the screen as a person, not a persona. But then came the sanctions, the bans, the VPNs—and finally, silence. First the internet went out, then the electricity, and eventually even the faith that any of it would ever return.

When everything collapsed, only work remained—cooking food for those “above.” He fried eggs. Day after day, alongside others who had survived. Chickens and eggs were all that was left—the only food. Sometimes he thought he had become one himself: closed off, fragile, helpless. And yet—alive.