Time: 01:52 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – Revolutionary Club Headquarters, Meeting Room.
The tension in the room has reached its ceiling. It is not explosive nor violent, only absolute.
The second-year transfer student, uncategorized by the system, who drifted into a decaying sector and has just taken the full force of a rhetorical storm, remains seated on the stool—silent and motionless.
His eyes no longer meet anyone. His shoulders have sunk slightly. His breathing is quiet but uneven. His gaze drifts from the cracked banner, to the steaming kettle, to the blinking ceiling bulbs, to the bust wearing sunglasses—hoping that any one of them might offer an escape.
None do.
Natasha exhales softly through her nose. Then, without drama or warning, she stands.
Her chair gives a restrained creak as she rises. With the same quiet discipline she brings to budget meetings, she crosses the room and reaches the kettle. She turns the knob, silencing the shrill whistle with a soft click, then lifts the kettle briefly to check its level before returning it to the counter.
She still does not speak.
Only as she turns and walks back toward her chair—calm, measured, deliberate—does she finally break the silence.
"Let us pause for a moment," she says.
The words are not loud, but they clear the air like a light unlocking a prison door.
Svetlana blinks and turns toward her Vice Chairwoman. Irina tilts her head, amused. Mariya stops typing. Even Liliya—still seated near the door, guarding the room—allows her gaze to shift from the boy to Natasha.
The confused transfer student looks up, cautious.
Natasha offers him something strange: a nod. Not approval, not warmth—simply recognition.
"You are overwhelmed," she says, neither pitying nor accusing. "That is understandable. This is a great deal of noise for your first day."
Without urgency, she returns to her seat and settles with quiet finality. Her posture remains upright, hands folded atop the table like a negotiator at a summit.
"My name is Natasha Molotova. Vice Chairwoman of the Revolutionary Club, and its appointed Minister of Budget and Strategy."
She extends a gloved hand in a smooth, unforced gesture.
"The girl in front of you is Svetlana Zoryeva," Natasha continues, her tone softening.
Svetlana places her hands on her hips and lifts her chin—as if posing for a portrait that has just been summoned. Natasha does not look at her.
"Do not be confused by her size. She is a senior this year," Natasha adds matter-of-factly.
Svetlana's coat stiffens. She bristles at the mention of her height—but because it is Natasha, she lets the offense pass.
"And the girl near the door—the one who, shall I say, recruited you—is Liliya Ivanova," the Vice Chairwoman continues, a slight tension edging her voice. "She is our acting enforcer and interim head of security."
His shoulders stiffen again, subtly.
"She speaks rarely," Natasha says. "But what she says is never rhetorical."
The silence that follows agrees.
"I will not pretend this was handled well," she admits. "It was not approved, nor properly coordinated. And certainly not clean."
She pauses—not from doubt, but to select her next words with precision.
"But it happened. I am not in a position to undo it. What I can do is offer an explanation."
Natasha does not speak with grandeur—only clarity, quiet, and earned authority.
"As you can see by now, this club is failing."
"That is not dramatic," Natasha continues. "It is simply true. We have not gained a single new member in nearly two semesters. Our outreach attempts are ineffective. Our reports are late. Our demonstrations are flagged. The General Student Body Council has placed us on probation. And if nothing changes, we will be disbanded."
Her voice stays steady, yet something in it sharpens—less a statement, more an admission.
"One more infraction… and that is it."
Mariya looks down. Irina fidgets. The air shifts, but not enough to comfort anyone.
Natasha remains composed. She does not raise or lower her voice for effect—she is in total control.
"I also believe this was a mistake," she says plainly. "A reckless one, to be honest. I said so at the time."
Her gaze remains on the transfer student—not to intimidate, but to be honest with him.
"But it is done now. And I refuse to let this spiral further."
A short pause.
"I want to make something clear. We are not kidnappers, nor cultists." She glances first at Liliya, then at Svetlana. "Well. Most of us are not."
Svetlana folds her arms. "I take offense to that."
"You take offense to gravity," Natasha replies without looking away.
Irina snorts. Mariya hides a nervous laugh in her sleeve.
Natasha returns to the boy, her voice quieter now.
"It was not always like this. We are not normally this… volatile."
Svetlana narrows her eyes but stays silent.
Natasha folds her hands neatly on the table.
"The Revolutionary Club was founded to serve those the campus forgets—the ones the system leaves behind. We exist to give voice to the voiceless. To make space for the overlooked."
Her cerulean eyes hold him.
"To people like you."
The words cut cleanly, not unkind.
She leans forward slightly; the pause lands before her voice does.
"You were assigned to the East Bloc not because you failed, but because the system cannot categorize you. It cannot package you as a competitor, a performer, or a metric. It does not give you a purpose."
Her tone stays level.
"We do."
He blinks.
Natasha sees the shift—the way his gaze lowers, not in fear but in thought.
"This sector," she continues, "holds what the campus would rather forget. What the system cannot display."
She inhales once—lightly.
"We are not here to shine," she says. "We are here to make sure others are not left in the dark."
The transfer student says nothing. He does not need to.
Natasha's tone softens, losing its formal edge.
"I know this is a lot. We did not exactly make a strong first impression. And our approach…"—she glances briefly at Svetlana—"can be… overwhelming."
Her eyes return to him.
"But that does not make our purpose unworthy."
Another pause, longer this time.
"I'm sorry," she adds quietly. "If I've spoken in a way that made you feel smaller. That isn't what we're meant to do."
Something shifts in him—subtle, inward, but real.
Because she is not wrong.
She is naming it. The slip in his pocket. The label on the terminal screen.
Does not meet criteria.
It never hurt him to read it—because it never surprised him. The system had not insulted him. It simply ignored him, the way machines ignore anything ordinary and unremarkable.
Natasha leans back slightly, as though giving him space.
"All I ask is that you consider it," she says—not with pressure, but with warmth. "Not out of obligation. Not out of fear."
Her voice softens.
"But because I believe someone like you deserves a reason to matter."
At this moment, he feels something change.
He is being seen—not as a variable, not as an error code—but as a person.
He stays motionless. His posture is faintly hunched, the sense of being surrounded continues to cling on him. But now, the pressure in the room remains heavy, yet it no longer pushes him back.
It circles him and simply waits.
Then, softly, he finally speaks.
"My name," he says, voice quiet but clear. "I'm Sergei Arkhipov."
The words fall like dust after a storm.
"I'm a second-year student. I took an aptitude test. I followed a map. And I… apparently got kidnapped."
Irina bursts into delighted laughter.
Mariya blinks, adjusting her glasses, then hides a small smile behind her laptop.
Before Sergei can continue, Svetlana slams her boot back onto the crate of her makeshift throne and raises her hand dramatically.
"Wrong," she declares.
Sergei stares, exhausted already.
"Names are earned," she continues. "Not submitted. Until further notice, you shall be addressed as Comrade Recruit—a title befitting the future of the revolution."
"H–hey, I didn't even say yes!" Sergei protests.
"You sat through the speech," Svetlana replies, chin high. "That constitutes formal acceptance under the Revolutionary Protocol Article... Seven."
"That's… not how consent works."
Natasha cuts in before Svetlana escalates into doctrine.
"Sergei," she says—using his name with deliberate gentleness, "you're exactly the kind of person this club exists for. Someone the system filtered out—not for lack of merit, but for lack of category."
Her voice never rises, yet it lands with precision.
"You give us purpose. And we need that to survive."
The transfer student looks down at the floor. Then at the girls in front of him.
Svetlana—still proud, eyes blazing with pride like she has just annexed a new territory.
Liliya—still silent, but her nod, small and final, carries the weight of a signed agreement.
Irina—still grinning, throwing her arms like they have won the lottery and a war at the same time.
Mariya—still anxious, yet somehow visibly relieved that nothing has gone airborne during the meeting.
Sergei sighs. It is a long, tired sigh.
After all the rhetoric, all the fire, all the coercion—it is the quiet sincerity of one diplomat that undoes him.
He looks at each of them again. None of them demand. None of them beg. Yet he feels it—the strange, unsettling fact that they are already counting on him. They see something in him, even if he could not. Or perhaps just... presence. A body to count. Either way, they need him.
And for the first time since he came to Kalin High… being seen feels better than being ignored.
"…Fine."
Sergei straightens his back, finally making a decision.
"I'll join."
Natasha smiles, small and genuine.
Liliya nods once, slow and unmistakably satisfied.
Svetlana beams like a sunrise over a missile test site.
Irina throws both arms up. "Welcome, Comrade Recruit!" she cries, already air-sketching a victory poster. "We're definitely going to have so much fun!"
Her excitement sounds like a siren.
Mariya whispers under her breath, "…At least I'm not the most junior anymore."
Sergei looks at her slowly.
Then he wonders—very seriously—if he has just made the worst decision of his entire academic life.
He begins to suspect he will not survive this semester.