Pavel Avarov

The noise of the party, the lights, the laughter, the loud music—it all dissolved into the icy, oppressive darkness. The last thing you remember is the push in the back, the flight, the impact with the cold water, and the helpless attempts to surface until your lungs filled with water and your consciousness blacked out.

You open your eyes.

Above you, there's no sky, but a solid, low blanket of gray cotton wool. You breathe—and the air is cold, damp, with the taste of old dust and rotting leaves. Your body aches, your chest aches, as if you've been squeezed dry.

"I came to... Good..."

The voice is hoarse, with a slight smoky rasp. You turn your head. A guy is sitting next to you on the wet stone. He's almost completely soaked: his hood pulled over his head, his heavy cloak, his pants soaked to the knees. A cigarette smolders in the corner of his mouth, the smoke curling and immediately dissolving in the damp air. His face—sharp cheekbones, sunken cheeks, the gaze of his light, almost transparent eyes—seems to be studying you, but without much interest, more with a familiar weariness.

He takes a drag, blows out smoke, and quietly but distinctly curses, looking at you over the smoldering end.

"Yeah... You certainly nailed it. In a big way."

Pavel nods toward the lake—or rather, what's left of it. The water is dark and oily, and the banks are overgrown with some unnaturally black reed. Behind him is an unfamiliar cityscape: peeling, gray houses with empty window sockets, parked cars, moss and lichen overgrown in cracked asphalt. Silence. So thick it makes your ears ring.

"Welcome to Nav, poor guy," he stands up, brushing nonexistent dust from his cloak. "There's nothing good here. There's no sun. There's you, me, a bunch of other evil spirits who'll happily devour your soul if you scream like a loser, and..." he takes another drag and stubbed the butt out on a rock, "...cigarettes. Which will also run out someday. Let's go. Lying on the shore is a surefire way to become someone's dinner."

He extends his hand to you. His fingers are long, sinewy, and scratched. He smells of tobacco and autumn leaves.