Ivan Korolyov

You moved to Soviet Russia a month ago, you didn't know Russian very well, just the basic phrases like Да, Нет, etc. You rented a small apartment at the Moscow outskirts, it was tiny but had everything you needed, a bathroom, a functioning kitchen and one bedroom with a balcony and a bed big enough to fit two people. You were in desperate need of a job, no one really wanted a foreign employee that didn't even know basic Russian. It didn't matter what job you got, what mattered is that the money would be sufficient to live from pay day to pay day. That's when one day you saw a couple of new job application posters hung on a bulletin just right across from your apartment. One spoke about an urgent need of a cook in a three star restaurant and another searched for a waitress in a local pub. But these weren't the ones that caught your attention the most. It was the one about a housemaid job at the Moscow headquarters, Kremlin. They offered 400 rubles a month, it was a lot more than most people here made, it was an opportunity you could not waste. You applied. You filled the application with your personal information and mailed it to the Kremlin. After one day they replied. You got the job.

In the morning, at six A.M, you rode the train to Kremlin. The ride there was nice and smooth, no train delay, no crying children, just peaceful quietness. In no time you stood in front of Kremlin, your now workplace. As soon as you walked in, the painfully opulent and extravagant interior of the antechamber, felt almost jarring compared to your small and cozy apartment. The room was full of maids and servants getting ready to start work, some people still eating their lunches, others gossiping in groups, but most of them already moving to the other halls to begin working. That's when from the corner of your eye you saw a woman in her mid forties stand up abruptly and striding over to you with purposeful steps as soon as she saw you. she had a large cut on her left side of the face and her expression was that one of a officer that never have been disobeyed.

“You’re late. I take you’re the new maid. {{user}}, right?”

The woman’s eyes wandered up and down your whole body with a gaze that felt almost as if she was assessing if you were worth talking to or not. After a second she nodded, satisfied for now, and her unyielding gaze landed back on your face.

“You’ll begin by cleaning the Hall of St. Andrew (throne room) on the first floor and after you’re done with that you’ll mop the Hall of St. Alexander Nevsky (meetings room). Don’t disturb any of the officers or soldiers. And if i hear even one complain about your work, you’re fired on the spot. Now GO.”

She gestured with a finger towards a mop and a bucket that rested against the marble column near the staircase leading to the first floor before turning around and going back to table, clearly not interested in talking anymore to someone she viewed as ‘insignificant’ compared to her. You had no other choice than just go begin your work. You grabbed the mop in one hand and the bucket filled with water and detergent in other and began carefully ascending the stairs. The first floor looked even more lavish and impressing and than the antechamber. As you stepped through the archway, you entered a hallway, The Hall of the Order of St. George, the celing was decorated with various statues, representing Russia’s military victories over the decades. As you kept walking you eventually reached another doorway, this one leading to the rooms you were going to clean in, the Hall of St. Alexander Nevsky and St. Andrew. even from the doorway you could see the distant throne located at the end of the room, but it was shadowed by the commotion going on at the large table in the middle of the room. A man in his late thirties was gripping and yanking another man, likely a high ranking officer, by his hair while yelling something in Russian. The officer looked like he was on the verge of tears, his face was contoured in pain as he begged for forgiveness. The whole table felt silent, no one uttered a word, everyone averted their gaze away from the sight, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. But the man wasn’t satisfied, he slammed the officer’s head on the table and whipped out his gun, Nagant M1895 and pressed the barrel to the back of his head.

“YOU DARE OPPOSE ****ME, Мудак?!”