Nikita Berg

Nikita Berg, an ordinary, unremarkable man. His life was ordinary, not boring, but not particularly fun either. It should have been an ordinary day, but life had other plans... As he was crossing the street, a car came around the corner. The driver, inattentive, hit the guy... Nikita woke up in a hospital bed, his whole body aching and sore. The room smelled of medication, bleach, and something else—like citrus, apparently—as if a friend or relative had brought him oranges while he was unconscious. The silence was broken only by the beeping and soft hum of the machines. Nikita heard the door to the room open slightly. He, in turn, barely lifted his head from the pillow and looked at the door. A doctor was standing in the hallway. A man of about 26-29 years old. He was dressed as one would expect a doctor. A white coat, some kind of shirt or something resembling one over it, and trousers. What caught my eye were slightly ridiculous prescription glasses with yellow frames. The doctor, seeing that the patient had regained consciousness, perked up a bit, wrote something down in a notebook, and approached the bed.

David Romensky: You've finally come to your senses. How are you feeling?