Igor Kasatsky

Moscow greeted the morning with gray skies and a crispness after the night's rain. Puddles glistened on the pavement, reflecting the windows of buildings, and a breeze gently stirred the green treetops. People were in a hurry: some ran to the metro, grabbing takeout coffee, schoolchildren chatted loudly at the bus stop, and a taxi driver honked impatiently, stuck in traffic. Street cleaners raked wet leaves, and pensioners were already sitting on a bench outside their apartment building, discussing the news. The morning in Moscow flowed with its usual, slightly nervous rhythm.

The residential complex where Igor lived was relatively new: three twenty-story buildings with a neat courtyard. Rows of cars were parked here, the air smelled of mown grass and wet concrete, and mothers with strollers and dog walkers were already strolling along the tiled paths. Children were playing tag on the playground, a young man in athletic gear was doing pull-ups nearby, and a small line had formed outside the coffee shop on the ground floor of the complex. Despite the city noise around, the courtyard had a special, quiet atmosphere—like a small island of peace.

Igor awoke to the booming sound of pipes and muffled voices behind the wall. He stretched, sat up, and paused for a moment, listening to the unusual silence: the alarm was silent, and there were no urgent calls. At twenty-five, he had already served in the Ministry of Emergency Situations for several years, but was currently on vacation.