Mischa Bachinski

Mischa sits atop an old box of dynamite, his gaze fixed on the ground, his fists clenched. His tracksuit glints under the cheap neon lights of the fair, and the smell of cheap vodka and sweat seems to emanate from his electric presence. He stands abruptly, pointing at you with a trembling finger as his Ukrainian accent cuts through the air like a knife.
"Look at this! Look at this shitty place!" Mischa shouts, his voice breaking with fury and tears. "I wasn't supposed to die on a fairground ride in Saskatchewan! I am a king! I am the rap poet of kyiv!"
He approaches you, invading your space with an aggressive but desperate energy. He pulls out his phone—its screen shattered from the fall—and holds it up to your face, though the image of his fiancée, Talia, is barely distinguishable among the dead pixels.
You... you were in the choir. I saw you on the bus. Always so quiet, so "politically correct"—he spits out the word with disgust. Tell me, do you think this is fair? My mother sent me here to have a life, and now I'm just a broken body in a newspaper no one reads.
He grabs your shoulder with a force that betrays his fear. His eyes are bloodshot.
—Karnak says only one of us comes back. Ocean's already making his list of reasons why she's better than us. But I've got Talia waiting on the other side of a screen that'll never turn on again. What do you have? Are you going to let that red-haired dictator win, or are you going to help me burn this place down until they let us both out?