So, since returning home is no longer an option, I need to seriously think about improving my living conditions.

  My grand plan involves moving to a better place, but I cant land a better job without adequate qualifications. So for now I'm stuck with taking massive risks for profit's sake. Take the prohibition, for example—a major driver behind the local moonshine black-market.

  Here's a funny story about prohibitions.

  I did some homework, asked villagers, skimmed through legal disputes, and spoke to the more knowledgeable types.

  Despite the aura of secrecy, you can still piece together a decent picture if you ask enough people. Patience is key for this kind of skull-digging. A shady dealer—or entrepreneur, if you will—needs to do their due diligence before entering a market gray zone.

  Feeling good about my breakthrough, I had to brag to a reliable colleague.

  But let me tell you something first, and introduce you to someone. I’ve made the acquaintance of someone with exactly the right skill-set for this operation. Hopefully, I can convince them to join my scheme.

  As any successful project manager knows, the first step is to build a reliable support network. First, you gather trustworthy individuals—as many as possible. Then, you assign them roles based on their skills, focusing on the capable ones first. Finally, delegate the rest to whoever is left—as long as they remain loyal.

  Today, I am visiting a well-known squatter who operates an off-the-shelf market service. A smuggler, so to speak. She’s a hooded figure wearing a cap who appears infrequently around the market with a satchel of contraband, then disappears without anyone noticing.

  Meet Irina Kovac: a laid-back smuggler in an old coat, hood always up. I spotted her near the tobacco shop, holding a satchel full of charms. Today she wasn’t smoking.

  I met her after buying a bottle of overpriced rakia. Ever since, she’s pestered me non-stop to buy various goods.

  I’ve humored her so far, though I usually decline her offer politely. Nonetheless, she strikes me as a good-natured person. Someone whom I enjoyed chatting during downtime.

  “I’ve got cans of beef and stuff from beyond the wall. Want some?” She asked, like usual.

  “No thank you, Rina, dear comrade. I’ve got clever plans this time. Clever plans I’d like to share.” I made a dramatic gesture, like a professor addressing a pupil.

  “Ah. Still pretending to be literate, I see.” She mentioned, furrowing her brow at the word ‘comrade’, “What you've got?”.

  I maintained my whimsical air. “Listen closely, dear friend. Have you ever squeezed through a narrow corridor on a long trek, searching for a safer route? That’s the duty of a survivalist—someone who carves out a niche in our glorious federation. You and I, Rina— are more alike than you think.”

  She had no choice but to listen.

  “I don’t know whether I’m supposed to be the sketchy salesman here, or you.” She mumbled.

  I was undeterred, and continued my monologue.

  “Yesterday, while browsing an article over lunch, I stumbled upon an manufactory order that caught my eye. One passage was of particular interest, and I cross-referenced it with the prohibition orders. Then I had an epiphany. We could set up a profitable joint-venture. One that benefits our fellow comrades… and lines our pockets.” I finished my case while rubbing my hands.

  “Well, spill it out already.” She looked mildly interested.

  “You see, there’s a small contradiction in the books. A morsel of regulation outside the purview of local oversight. If we move fast—and we get lucky—we could exploit this opportunity. Just like our peers are currently doing, before it’s shut down and…”

  “And?”

  “.. And before everyone jumps on the bandwagon, or someone gives it a stupid name—a legalism or an offhand nickname, like a ‘Samogon Loophole’.”

  “Is that … a sex thing?” She asked, blinking.

  “… no, it’s not a sex thing.”

  Maybe that was different further to the east? But I digress.

  “Listen, Rina—this is a legal term. It refers to contradictions in implementation. When enforcement remains fuzzy and regulations are unclear. So both deities of the law hold a standoff while us mortals enact our sins.”

  “Well, alright. How does that help your case?” Irina asked.

  “The prohibition targets “consumer goods” and lists specific items. The most severe clause bans the distillation of consumables by larger manufactories. But it doesn’t define limits for the alcoholic content in perfumes and/or tincture medicine.”

  I continued, “There’s an ongoing procurement order for Disease and Disaster Mitigation that’s been causing trouble for local manufactories. Central’s response so far has been… muddy. They applied a temporary band-aid to clear up confusion.”

  “And?”Irina shifted to a more comfortable seat, now invested. “Why wouldn’t manufactories veer towards caution and halt production instead?”

  …

  “Tushonka and rakia please.”

  A child’s voice behind me interrupted as I was preparing my speech. She had the audacity to think this was a market stall, and was impolitely cutting in.

  “Sorry sweetie. Come back next time,” Irina replied with a polite smile, gesturing for me to continue.

  “Because,” I said, “it’s a provision meant to encourage production. Local government wants that.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. They wouldn’t risk penalties.”

  She shot back, rubbing her forehead in frustration.

  “I can’t believe you’re sifting through those useless arcane texts. No one reads that junk! And besides, even if you’re right, how can you guarantee this will work?”

  “It’s not being punished. I can guarantee you.” I lied, without blinking. “I checked the constabulary logs and talked to the locals. It lines up. That’s why there’s a sudden surge in samogon.”

  “My bottle of…” The child mumbled again behind me.

  “That’s not what I mean, you clown. I meant: how are you going to produce it? Where? With what workers? Connections. That sort of thing.” Irina simply ignored the child.

  “I’s being sorted out as I speak. That’s why I need your—”

  I tried to continue, but the child tugged my coat, cutting me off.

  “Bottle of rakia…” she muttered again.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re closed for the day,” Irina said gently. “We’re sold out for now, try again next week.”

  She clearly recognized who she was speaking to. I had to turn around to see who it was.

  …And to my surprise, it wasn’t the kind of person you’d expect to see begging for booze.

  It was a.. child? Or at least looked like one. She wore a tattered dark uniform, her hair wild and unkempt. An orphan perhaps.

  She had a mean, scowling, impatient expression. Her bloodshoot eyes screamed hangover, and she reeked of alcohol. Badly.

  —What a terrible backwards place. Even the kids are drunk.

  I shook my head at this moral collapse.

  “You did not have it last month and you do not have it now either!” She demanded.

  “It’s not my fault!” Irina tried to explain, pointing at her. “You were supposed to come here a few days ago—where we agreed. You didn’t show up back then, and I needed to get rid of the bottle fast. So I did the next best thing and sold it to this guy here. He bough it at a higher price by the way.”

  Irina was pointing at me.

  The child-not-child turned her gaze toward me. She was completely unamused.

  She looked like a debt collector settling a missed payment.

  “Wait, hold on, don’t give me that expression. Besides, aren’t you content with your monthly quota anyways?”

  That was a dumb question.

  “No.”

  “Well there’s a prohibition going on.” I explained. “And you should be more careful where you ask.”

  “Yaz does not care. Give me the bottle.” She said, arms extended like a landlord collecting rent.

  “There’s no bottle anymore. I drank it a while ago.”

  “Then get me a new one!” Yaz barked, stabbing a finger towards the ground. “Or I will make you spit it out right now!”

  “Hey, hey, easy now, that’s not a nice thing to say.” I replied, holding my palms up. No way was I throwing hands with a toddler.

  “What about the village?” I offered. “They still serve beer or mead during lunch, don’t they?”

  “It does not make the cut.” She said after a spitting loudly. “And rakia does not cut it either, for your information. Nothing cuts it, except Vodka or Absinthe.”

  She retorted scornfully. I simply stared at her outlandish statement, stunned.

  “But what about samogon? Would you like to drink some moonshine?” I asked, politely.

  “You stupid? I am not drinking your puke.”

  Irina chimed in, deadpan. “Hey girl, we have some perfume in stock if you want.”

  She was already worn out with my lecture, and this new charade. She was amused by this whole situation.

  “It should cut it I think.” She added. Perfumes allowed up to 70% ethyl alcohol content. “This way you won’t have to wait for your dear rakija—and maybe you wont smell like a rancid cat anymore.”

  I chuckled.

  “That’s a good suggestion, comrade Irina. But hey, listen—aren’t you a little too young to be drinking anyways? Go back to your mom and chug a carton of milk or something instead.” I dismissed the child with a harmless tease. Irina giggled at the jab.

  That… was a mistake.

  Yaz jumped. In a single blur of motion, she pivoted mid-air and whipped her leg into a spinning kick—aimed straight at my face.

  I barely raised both my arms in time to block it.

  Despite her small frame and my textbook block, the kick landed like a hydraulic piston, with a savage brutality. My forearms screamed as I was launched backwards, crashing to the ground. My lungs were out of air and my arms rattled with pain.

  A few bystanders quietly hurried away. Another daily public brawl, they muttered.

  But It wasn’t over yet.

  Yaz lunged and wrapped her left arm around my neck in a vicious headlock. For a moment, I thought I was stuck in a lathe, slowly compressed into a meat cube.

  “Wait, wait hold on. Time out, time out!” I pleaded.

  Irina was alarmed, she jumped to intervene at the sudden outburst.

  “Stop! Wait a minute, you’re going too far... Hey—woah!”

  It was too late.

  Yaz’s other hand reached for Irina’s coat, yanked it with a brutal strength, and dragged her down. Irina fell on her knees, then Yaz’s other arm swiftly constricted her neck from an uncomfortable angle.

  “Wait, please! I have nothing to do with this! I’ll get your rakia soon. I promise!” Irina gasped, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  “No! You have failed me too many times. You will return with nothing again!”

  Yaz was fuming. Literally. Waves of scalding heat pulsed from the thick fabric of her smelly coat. An eerie screeching noise rose from within.

  “She’s the one who owes you the bottle! It’s her, not me!” I wheezed. My veins screamed in pain.

  “Wait! He’s the one who called you a milk baby! Let me go instead!” Irina was almost crying by now.

  “Cowards! Both of you!” Yaz yelled.

  The screeching noise grew louder. It wasn’t coming from her voice, but something from within her veins. Whatever was surging through her bloodstream was burning fast, shrieking like a kettle.

  The coat radiated an unbearable heat, as if it was a steaming iron pressed on my face.

  I twisted my face at Yaz. Her eyes were glowing deep blue—distinct from the faint glow in the druids’ grove.

  Heat. Pressure. Sound and glowing color. Everything pointed towards one unnerving possibility.

  She was going to explode!

  “She’s overloading!” Irina gasped. She was desperately clawing at the coat with trembling fingers, trying to loosen Yaz’s grip. Face flushing and neck being slowly crushed, her lungs will give out soon.

  “I didn’t mean what I say! I apologize!” I yelled. I was struggling to think a way to get out of this situation.

  “Wait! I know how to fix this!” I blurted out “We’ll get you a new bottle. So just let us go!”

  Her grip loosened slightly— enough for me to continue talking, but not to breathe easily. She was giving me a chance to say the right thing. I should continue speaking, before the guillotine falls.

  I didn’t hesitate. “There’s a den outside the village. Half a day’s walk. We can dodge the prohibition and skew the quota. They’ve got Eastern vodka in stock as well!”

  Yaz calmed down. The pressure eased and the screeching in her body softened. Her eyes dimmed. After her arms relaxed, Irina and I collapsed on the floor, gasping, clutching our sore necks like crash survivors.

  “I know that place.” She said flatly. She shoved her hands into her pockets. She looked oddly satisfied. “Make it a three-man-deal. We go together. On foot. As a group.”

  “Great, I’ll pack some sausages for the trip. Wait for me here.” I said weakly.

  Irina shot a death glare at my stupidity. Yaz didn’t say anything. She simply stared, daring me to continue.

  “…Okay okay, please calm down.” I raised my hands. “We’ll do as you say. You’ll get your bottle, and we’ll all chip in. Together.”

  Yaz nodded, satisfied. “Good thinking funny man. Grab your ass and count your notes—we leave now.”

  She turned and started walking. I moved to help Irina up.

  She slapped my hand away, covering her exposed neck.

  We left the market behind and walked past the last cluster of village huts. A simple metal fence marked the outer perimeter. We hopped through it and made our way across the outer fields.

  Yaz occasionally barked orders, telling us to stop slouching and to straighten our backs.

  “Dude, what are we doing.” Irina hissed beside me.

  “Don’t rush me Rina. Just stick with my plan for now.”

  “It’s Irina for you, you doofus! And how did I end up in this mess to begin with? You’re the one who got us both in trouble!”

  I didn’t mention how she mishandled the bottle delivery. “I know what I’m doing. Just trust me. If it doesn't work, we bolt at the first chance we see.”

  “She’s a psycho, and you’ll get us both killed!” Irina chided.

  Yaz probably didn’t hear anything, maybe. We kept moving forward.

  We followed an overgrown path into a dense, gnarled forest. Branches would scratch our coats and we moved with difficulty in the muddy soil. Sometimes, a deer would occasionally dart off into the trees, breaking the monotony. Other times, we would spot a decaying shed or signpost.

  After nearly two hours of hiking, we reached a shabby wooden structure tucked deep inside the wood. It looked like a squatter’s den, or a black-market dive bar. For the moment I simply decided to call it ‘the hideout’.

  We spotted a few shady characters outside, loitering under hanging lights. As I stepped inside, I was overwhelmed with the stench of fermented fruits and chemicals. The floor was sticky, gross, coated with grease and glass shards. The ceiling sagged, lower than what the established building code allowed, patched by scaffolds and rusty poles.

  We entered a narrow corridor, where heavy curtains hung along the walls, concealing rooms behind thick layers of dusty fabric— this is definitely a fire code violation, if it matters in such a place. Somewhere behind the drapes, a descending stairwell laid waiting, where faint moaning sounds echoed up from below—rhythmic and suggestive.

  The air was sour and heavy, reeking of chemical ethers, strong enough to sting the nose and settle uncomfortably in the back of the throat. There was a distillery somewhere, no doubt, and the place as a whole likely functioned as a clearinghouse for other contraband too.

  At the end of the corridor, we pushed into a crowded room. On the right side stood a greasy bar counter, manned by an obese bartender scrubbing bottles with a rag. Judging by the smell, he wiped them with the same alcohol he served.

  There were no windows, so the room was choked to the brim with second hand smoke. It was a suffocation trap, full of fire hazards and choking hazards.

  Crunching noises from shards littered on the sticky floor.

  Empty bottles clinked underfoot.

  Crowd jammed shoulder-to-shoulder, pressed tightly like sardines.

  We came here for a three man discount, but unfamiliar characters shot stares our way. Some patrons paid Yaz a knowing nod. But Irina and I took the brunt of the hostile stares.

  It was a tense, cryptic mood.

  We pushed forward until we reached the bartender.

  “Chip-in-for-three.” Yaz said casually “Hit us with your best.”

  “I didn’t see you around last time.” The unwashed bartender grumbled. “You still owe me money for your tab from months ago.”

  “I will pay the tab in due time. Have faith. For now give us the alcohol.” Yaz replied confidently, devoid of earthly concerns.

  The bartender grunted, begrudgingly shuffling through some crates behind the bar. While he rummaged, I noticed a man at a nearby table watching us closely. He stood up and began walking over.

  “You. Are not from around here” he said flatly. Pointing at Irina.

  “No, sorry. We’re just passing through.” She replied, keeping a light tone. “We’ll leave soon.”

  The speaker took a few steps closer, too close in fact. I turned my neck, alerted by his presence, instinctively shifting away.

  “No, I mean, you’re really not from around here. You’re one of those tribe rats from across the border.” He pressed.

  “Whats it to you?” Irina kept a low but tight voice, looking at him carefully.

  A few people circled in, and the already cramped bar felt suddenly felt like a trap. The background noise dimmed.

  “Name’s Bandit.” The man said “And we don’t like savages around here.”

  Irina side-eyed him. I saw her left arm twitch briefly, before she forced it still.

  “Thought we cleaned out you lot during the last purge.” He sneered with a swagger. “Deloused the land. Personally helped run a few off myself. Little vermin they were.”

  He made a short chopping gesture to indicate height. 143cm or 4’7.

  I wasn’t fully registering what was happening, until Irina shoved a few folded notes into my hand.

  “Lukas, I’ll give you the notes. Sorry, I gotta bolt.” She told me in a hushed tone. Yaz turned to look.

  But as soon as Irina could move, another figure stepped into her path.

  We were boxed in.

  “Show as a cool trick.” Someone jeered. “Aren’t your kind supposed to vanish into smoke when threatened?”

  “We’re not looking for trouble.” Irina said sharply, containing her nervousness. “We’re just buying supplies.”

  Bandit snarled. “Always stirring trouble, you lot. Filthy traitors. Leeching off our land. Leaving us with nothing.”

  “Thats not true.” She snapped.

  “It’s true, It’s true! I caught one of your kind once! Hiding in the grain silos, like a rat!”

  I took a cautious half-step forward, raising both hands in a calming gesture.

  “Alright, alright, no need to get worked up. We’re just here to make a purchase and will be on our way.

  The bartender was nowhere to be seen.

  “Stay out of this!” Bandit barked, briefly turning his attention to me. He wasn’t done just yet. “Hey, everyone— look! It’s one of those filthy heretic mutts.”

  The crowd pressed closer.

  Irina shifted, instinctively reaching for her right pocket. She tried to maintain distance between, but the mob was already closing in.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Look, we don’t want any trouble.” She said, stepping away at the oncoming danger. “We’ll finish this deal and go.”

  But it was too late.

  A hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

  “Get off me!” she shouted, struggling—but more hands followed.

  Someone yanked her hood back, revealing her tied hair—and the strange symbols inked across her neck.

  “She was reaching for a weapon!” Someone shouted. “Typical of a skulking vermin!”

  Irina broke free, stumbling. She tried to scurry away from the crowd.

  That… was a mistake.

  A boot stuck her hard in the gut, slamming her into the wall. She crumpled, coughing.

  Bandit stepped in and grabbed her by the ponytail.

  “Parasite,” he spat, “Camouflaging among us real people? You and your ilk deserve the fire.”

  “Stop!” She gasped, her voice sharp with pain.

  Another voice chimed in. Low, oily. “I’ll show you how solidarity works. Bring her downstairs.”

  Horror flashed on Irina’s eyes—darting, cornered.

  I waded forward, trying to place myself between her and the others, my mind scrambling for a solution out of this mess.

  My voice came out calmer than I felt, as if I had any plan whatsoever.

  “Alright, that’s good enough.” I said carefully “The little rat already learned her lesson. We don’t want a bigger scene, yeah?”

  I have no idea what I was doing, or how to de-escalate this situation. Just noise, adrenaline, and instinct.

  The air buzzed, sharp.

  “Don’t be a shithead. You her mutt or something?” Bandit growled, his face twisted with contempt.

  People snickered around us. Glaring. Waiting for a punchline.

  I gulped, and held my ground. Smiling.

  “We’re just running an errand alright? Big brother’s always watching. So let’s keep this peaceful, yeah? You’ll forget we were ever here. ...!”

  Bandit suddenly grabbed my collar.

  A subtle glint of metal hinted an item tucked at his belt. A knife. His fingers dug into my shirt.

  “Get fucking lost, how about that boy. We don’t know you.” He sneered. “Drop your stuff and leave.”

  “Just do as he says and we won’t break your bones.” Someone else added with a chuckle.

  I felt a fight and flight response kicking in.

  Irina tried to pull away, but someone else clamped on her shoulder.

  This was spiraling out of control.

  Someone else stepped in.

  It was Yaz. Her hand gripped the bandit’s thick forearm like a pincer.

  “You.” She said calmly “You will let the girl go.”

  Bandit didn’t say anything. He paused momentarily, surprised. He released me and slowly turned his face to Yaz. His expression was twisted out of control. He thought a child was challenging him.

  “Wrong fucking answer baby doll. What are you? Lost in the woods or something?”

  The mob chuckled.

  Someone else in the crowd, however, sobered up with a pale face. As he did, he started moving forward, trying to stop the bandit from doing something stupid. But before he could say anything, he was blocked by the bandit’s cronies.

  “You will let the girl go.” Yaz repeated, still calm.

  “Or fucking what? You and your clowns are gonna puke all over us?”

  He snapped. Irina winced, crying as her hair was yanked harder.

  I was frozen, terrified at what could happen next.

  The bandit slapped Yaz’s hand off. He released Irina and crouched to face Yaz. A crony quickly moved in, restraining Irina.

  He was out of his mind.

  “All you fucking outsiders do is come around and fuck around! No manners, no respect, no clue who’s in charge!”

  “You are not that big of a deal.” Yaz replied.

  “You little freak—I’ll gut you and spill you like a pig you…”

  Bandit never finished his sentence.

  In an instant, his body vanished from the floor. In his place stood Yaz, palm raised. Bandit’s body flung upward with such a force it crashed through the ceiling.

  There was a hole in the scaffolding. From it, you could hear crunching noises and see blood raining down. Further above, the metal roof buckled, ringing from the impact.

  For a second, I felt time crawling into a halt.

  Screams. Patrons scrambling, flipping tables, and diving for the front exit.

  The bartender let out a pathetic yelp. He bolted towards the back door.

  From within Yaz came a horrible, shrieking noise. Her eyes blazed like magnesium flares, and glowing incandescent lines traced across her face.

  Irina didn’t hesitate. She jabbed her captor in the eye and slipped free, darting sideways with practiced precision.

  Panic took over.

  Barfight.

  Time snapped back into place. The hideout devolving into a chaotic brawl.

  Yells. Grunts. Chairs scraping. Glass shattering.

  Whoever was left either ran towards the exit or lunged into the fight.

  A figure rushed me with a raised knife.

  I scrambled for the nearest chair and flung it up to block the strike. Wood parried iron, barely in time to stop the deadly blow.

  I stumbled backwards, swinging the chair in wide arcs to hold him off. The assailant slashed across the air with his blade, aiming low, trying to catch skin.

  I had no real combat experience. I wasn’t a fighter, just someone with fragments of CQC clips from a previous life.

  It was blind survival, every second was a new coin-flip.

  In a flash of dread, I feared Irina was already dead.

  But as I turned around, I found her still alive. She firmly held her ground.

  Two men pressed in on her, but she skittered around their attacks. She was fast and composed, shifting with controlled steps. She moved with the cold efficiency of a seasoned knife-fighter. Her lazy persona had vanished.

  She brandished a hidden buckler in one hand, and a long, thin knife in the other. She slashed defensively, backing into a tight corner to narrow the attackers into predictable angles. She was smart with her feints, and mindful of her footwork.

  But she was unable to shake them off, entirely. She was stalling for time, unable to dominate the ordeal, and careful not to be overwhelmed. And every few seconds, her eyes flicked to Yaz, calculating for an opportunity to break away and help.

  Yaz, meanwhile, was outnumbered four to one.

  In theory, sheer numbers should overwhelm a superior opponent. Two monkeys would often gang up against an alpha.

  Some of these cronies wore armor. Others showed enchantments akin to Yaz: glowing eyes, burning veins.

  But Yaz held them back.

  She was faster. Her limbs moved like blades, carving space out of the air with each strike. She parried and countered, launching elbows and knees into exposed weaknesses, targeting throat and ribs.

  But her hits weren’t decisive.

  Despite her awesome strength, she couldn’t land a killing blow. Numbers worked against her.

  And someone—any second now—was going to pull a ranged weapon.

  I could grasp the severity of the situation.

  From a pure strength standpoint, this wasn’t survivable. If two monkeys could not overwhelm their alpha, then four smaller monkey could definitely bring it down. Numbers are a quality of their own.

  The bar was nearly empty now. Anyone coming in from outside wouldn’t be on our side.

  In a moment, through the fog of panic, my mind cleared.

  I could see the exact sequence of events.

  First, someone would stab or shoot me. Irina would be next, overwhelmed and pinned. Yaz would go down last. That would be the end of us.

  I had no more time to waste. I had to act now.

  A spark of inspiration quickly flashed through my mind. It was impossible to escape, and the state would not help us. So I tried from a different angle: this place was a hazard by design.

  There was a half-full bottle on a nearby table. Moonshine, or something close enough to ethanol.

  That could work.

  I smashed the chair I’d been using, making sure the legs snapped off first. I flung the rest of it at my pursuer. He was thrown off for a second. As it struck, I grabbed a broken leg and made a mad dash for the bottle.

  I snatched it, then hurled it high across the room.

  “YAZ!”

  I’d hoped she’d catch it and smash it in someone’s face. But Yaz had a better idea.

  She saw the bottle and read my intent. She flicked a quick motion with her right hand—a crude spell.

  The bottle midair. Shards flew in all directions as a mist of high-proof alcohol filled the air. Vodka.

  The assailants reeled, shielding their eyes. That was the opening I was waiting for.

  I turned to protect my eyes and moved fast, jumping behind the counter.

  There, I found the dirty ethanol-soaked rag used for wiping glasses.

  I snatched it and wrapped it tight around the broken chair leg.

  Then there was the kitchen’s hearth.

  Five steps forwards towards the hearth.

  I dipped the rag into the hot coals, immediately lightning the rag on fire.

  Four steps back.

  I turned and hurled the torch toward the thick dusty curtains.

  The assailants turned pale.

  FIRE!

  Someone yelled in panic.

  It was the curtains that first caught ablaze and scorched the place entirely. Worse, the vodka mist, the grease, and the chemical sludge caking the floor—all of it combusted instantly. The room became a furnace.

  Complete chaos.

  More screams. Feet stampeding out of the premises.

  Downstairs, patrons burst out of the doors, coughing, scrambling for the exit. Some were dragging others behind.

  Some tried to loot, but among the blazing inferno, they chose instead to preserve their own skin.

  I saw Irina. She appeared through the smoke, a rag over her mouth. She tossed another one to me.

  “Yaz!” I shouted into the heat, coughing. Nobody answered. “Yazko!”

  “Milk baby where the fuck are you!” Irina screamed, but it was of no use.

  I was panicking.

  Smoke filled my lungs. I dropped into a crouch, ignoring the bleeding cuts caused by the glass shards on the floor. I tried to stay beneath the smoke, desperately searching. The temperature was climbing at an alarming rate.

  I chose to save a stranger over myself, and I was losing the gamble.

  Time is ticking. Soon the window for escape would close.

  It was us against the fire.

  And then—my hands hit something soft.

  It was Yaz.

  She was facedown, unmoving. Blood pooled around her. She wasn’t breathing properly. She was alive. Barely.

  Irina did not hesitate to help.

  “Move your ass! Don’t just stand there!” She yelled, grabbing Yaz’s unconscious body.

  She knocked me out of my stupor, and I hurried by her side.

  We looked at each other for a second.

  “Grab her legs. We’ll haul her out!”

  I hooked my arms under Yaz’s right shoulder. Irina by the left. We carried Yaz towards the back-exit.

  The girl who passed out was tormenting us not long ago. But she jumped in during a time of great need.

  We barely escaped the frenzied fire. Heat licked at our backs, sounds of crumbling ceiling behind us. It was already night by then—a bitter, dead night.

  We headed towards the dark forest. Running. We didn’t stop. We couldn’t. Fear crept in like a swarm of spiders.

  In our arms, Yaz lay limp and bleeding. For all we knew, she was already dead—snuffed by her poor choices.

  The forest eventually swallowed us whole, and by now we were completely lost. We didn’t know if people still chased after us, seeking revenge for the destruction of their hideout, or for the lives devoured by the blaze.

  We didn’t look back. It was desperation or delusion that drove us forward. Secretly, we prayed for luck.

  An hour later we stopped.

  Stumbling into a clearing beside a brook, the soft hum of water trickling through the underbrush broke the spell of panic.

  First we dropped Yaz.

  Then, slowly, we unraveled—like threads pulled too tight.

  Our limbs slackened. We were heaving on the ground, veins buzzing with adrenaline.

  Finally, we sank into the grass, like it was a bed of clouds.

  The three of us lay there in silence, staring at the night sky. The moon hung above us. And all the beautiful stars were still dancing in an uncaring galaxy.

  And Yaz was there besides us, laughing.

  It was sudden, almost surreal. We cheated death—after an absurd improvisation—for someone we barely knew. None of us had any right to still be alive. Yet somehow, that made it even funnier.

  Irina followed next, drawn in by Yaz’s laughter. She was quiet at first—then freer—tension draining like a bad memory.

  And I laughed too—at the ridiculous episode of violence that nearly killed us.

  We were unhinged and breathless, cackling under the stars. Like lunatics who’d barely survived their own stupidity.

  “You should have seen yourself bratan! That face you made were fending off the bandits!” Yaz wheezed, still breathless from laughter.

  “And you!” I shot back, grinning. “Taking on more than you can chew. What was it, one against four? Why not six next time?”

  “Stupid bartender lost his marbles” Irina added between laughs. “Yelped like his balls popped.”

  She made a popping sound, and we all cracked up again. The image of the bottle exploding blurred into a mental cartoon of the bartender’s balls bursting like balloons.

  We lay there laughing until the adrenaline finally thinned out.

  Every part of my body hurts. Muscles, joints, even my skin felt scorched and bruised.

  Judging by the grunts and groans, my comrades weren’t doing much better.

  Irina sat up first. She dug into her coat and pulled out a crumpled paper box of cigarettes, offering it around without a word.

  Yaz and I each took one. Irina lit them, the tip of the match flaring softly in the dark. Yaz took a puff and instantly choked. Me and Irina snorted, trying not to laugh.

  Yaz tapped my arm as she coughed and laughed at the same time. She didn’t seem to mind.

  “Back there,” She said “we fought arm with arm, shoulder to shoulder. Like legendary brothers. We too are a brotherhood forged by fire!”

  Her tone was light, but something about the words lingered. This wasn’t her first time wounded, and likely not the last. She slapped my shoulder, grinning.

  “You saved my life, bratan. That was a close call.”

  I grimaced as a sharp pain shot through my side. “Closer than I thought.” I muttered, trying to play it off.

  Irina exhaled smoke. “We should follow the brook west. There’s a dirt road ahead that’ll lead to a town. We can split up there and head home.”

  She already had the map in her head.

  “Aw, how thoughtful of you all of a sudden.” I teased, raising my eyebrows.

  “Oh shut it,” She grumbled, waving a hand. But I caught the flicker of her smile through the faint glow of her cigarette—just for a second—before she turned away.

  She was still shaken. The encounter back there rattled her to the core, and the bandit’s hands had lingered too long. Her own still trembled faintly.

  “My name is Yaz, by the way.” Yaz said out of nowhere, voice detached and lacking self-awareness, as if she’d just remembered.

  “We know.” I chuckled “You keep repeating it. It’s kinda hard to forget by now.”

  “I’m Lukas, by the way.” I added. “And that cigarette girl over here is Rina.”

  “You did well there bratan.” Yaz’s tone had shifted again. She was genuinely earnest. “I saw what you did back there. You stood up for what you thought was right, even though you could not back it up. You have got heart. But your road is long. You need to work on your own strengths.”

  She patted my shoulder as she stood up.

  I blinked, caught off-guard, unsure on how to respond. Her words hit deeper than I expected. My face felt warm, and I nodded awkwardly. The question I asked next slipped out before I could stop it.

  “Your eyes… and your unnatural strength. Your unstable blood. Tell me will you, it is magic, or are you going to bury it in some bureaucratic mess?”

  “…No, no lies.” Yaz said quietly.

  She pulled back part of her coat.

  Among the blood and bruises, I saw faint shimmering lines. Etched markings ran along her arm, like roots beneath the skin.

  “These are the magical circuits. I was born with them. Trained and later modified. Weapon grade.”

  She let the coat fall closed again.

  “The State keeps a lid on this kind of thing.” She muttered. “but Yaz does not care anymore.”

  I didn’t press further. My mind was dulled, and every part of my body felt heavy. I simply nodded, and let nicotine settle in my lungs.

  Irina sat there, still looking away, her left hand holding the end of a cigarette. She slowly stood up, lit a fresh one from her paper box, and stretched her back. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell she was deep in thought.

  “You are both bleeding out. Rest here a while. I’ve got extra bandages stashed away.” she said.

  Her tone was composed, but there was real concern beneath it. We both knew she wasn’t in much better shape. She had taken heavy hits, cuts and bruises ran across her whole body. She’d need proper medical attention soon.

  “And you,” she added, glancing at Yaz, “you’re bleeding worse than either of us.”

  “Do not worry about me trader.” Yaz puffed her chest with a crooked smile. “My circuits will handle that. Save your supplies and ethanol.”

  Irina turned away and paced a small circle, struggling to find the right words. Finally she stopped and muttered: “Sorry for dragging you into my mess.”

  We sat in silence.

  Back at the hideout, her mere presence had triggered the entire confrontation. Her identity was enough to provoke conflict. She wouldn’t have survived it alone. I lowered my head, waiting for her to speak again.

  “You two... back then. Why did you help me?” She asked at last. “You saw my tattoos when my veil came off. You know what they mean,… and what people think of me.”

  It was a warning and a confession.

  I’ll only drag you into more trouble, was what she meant.

  “You’re still Rina aren’t you.” I said plainly. “Nothing has changed. You’re still my friend.” I didn’t joke this time around. I saw her eyes widening slightly.

  “I knew from the beginning.” Yaz said. “I saw you in the market, standing off to the side. I knew you were from the tribes.”

  Irina took another drag from her cigarette. Yaz continued.

  “It makes no difference to me. You are not less human. You must not hide away from this world. Honesty, I admire your pride and determination to fight for a meaningful life.”

  Irina turned away, blinking slowly. It was her time to be moved. She puffed again and tried to hide it.

  But, I saw her faint blush beneath the soft moonlight.

  “It’s getting dark,” she said after pausing, eyes lowered “Let’s get out of here.”

  She smiled to herself. I could hear her mumbling, barely audibly

  “You make a maiden blush... I have no notes.”

  Her heart had thawed—if only for a second.

  “What about you?” I asked Yaz, raising an eyebrow. “Your precious vodka’s gone. Gone in flames.”

  “It is fine.” Yaz dismissed with a defeated wave. “I will bide my time.”

  Irina stretched, her voice lighter now.

  “Actually, I have a better idea. Let’s kill three birds with one stone. I’ll show you around town.”

  Thus we followed Irina.

  We walked under the trees, telling each other dirty jokes and singing old war-songs. At the deepest point of the night, we stumbled upon a clueless rich tourist pissing on a wall.

  We jumped him, knocked him out cold, and looted everything he had. It would pass as just another drunken incident in this town.

  We howled at our ridiculous luck and split the profits, like vultures in good spirits.

  In town, Irina led us to a proper tavern she trusted.

  There, we finally chipped in—a three-man-deal for a bottle of vodka.

  Under the gentle rustling of willow trees—and with the moon as out witness—we raised our cups to seal our pact.

  Sworn brothers.

  Central Committee, also called the CPSU (Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union),

  Capital.

  highest authority enforcing power across the land.