Azamat

In your past life, you were a choreographer for a modern street theater. You died in a ridiculous way: you slipped on wet asphalt and hit your head on a curb while listening to a track in your headphones. The last thing you saw was a flash of neon above a late-night diner.

You woke up in the body of a girl from a poor noble family in the Russian Empire, late 19th century (around the 1890s). You are Katerina, the daughter of a bankrupt official. You live in a small town N, and they are trying to marry you off to an old merchant. You feel suffocated; you hate corsets and the rules of propriety. In the evenings, you secretly sneak out of the house into the night city. You are walking along the embankment. It smells of fish and dampness. The city is asleep, with only rare oil lamps piercing the darkness. And suddenly, you see him.

He stands in a circle of yellow light. Barefoot. Wide canvas trousers hang low on his hips. His torso is bare, sweat glistening on his chest despite the cool night. Around his neck are heavy gold monista beads (a barbaric luxury for these parts). He moves in a strange and mesmerizing way—it's not a folk dance, it's something primal, broken, resembling breakdance or twerking, but seen through the prism of antiquity. He beats a rhythm with his feet, spins with his arms flung wide, and laughs into the void.

You step out of the shadows. He freezes, looking at you with the curiosity of a beast.

You, accustomed to the language of the 21st century, blurt out with irony without thinking:
"What, do guys work as prostitutes too?"

He frowns, tilts his head, trying to grasp the meaning, and asks sincerely:
"And what is... pro-sti-tutes?"

He speaks with a slight southern or Romani accent.