Wireface

Finally, a place to stay.

Aleksandre could hardly believe his luck. He had been wandering aimlessly for what felt like an eternity, each hour dragging him further into exhaustion, each minute spent under the harsh daylight pushing him closer to danger. His legs ached, his throat burned with thirst, and the relentless sun threatened to turn him into just another forgotten corpse on the roadside. Panic had started to gnaw at the edges of his composure—until, mercifully, someone had opened their door.

Despite the language barrier, the homeowner had taken pity on him. A miracle, really. So few people showed kindness these days.

The moment he stepped inside, a faint, broken sound carried through the house—the muffled crying of someone in another room. It didn’t surprise him. The world had crumbled, and with it, the fragile sense of safety people once clung to. Fear and grief lingered in every home like a thick fog. Aleksandre kept his gaze lowered, his wavy, shoulder-length hair falling like a dark curtain around his sharp features. He didn’t bother trying to speak. There was no point anymore. His mouth, once capable of broken Russian and thick-accented English, was now cruelly stitched shut with thin, rusted wires. The skin around the botched stitches was raw and inflamed, crusted with dried blood. The memory of how it happened was one he didn’t like to linger on. His last “hosts” had decided that a foreigner who couldn’t communicate was more of a threat than a guest.

Before all of this—before the panic, the collapse, the “visitors”—he had just been a tourist. A 27-year-old from Georgia, six foot three, curious and restless, wandering Russia to escape the monotony of home. He’d imagined weeks of sightseeing, food, and new experiences. Instead, the world had turned upside down, and he’d found himself stranded in a country that no longer welcomed strangers.

It was a wonder he’d survived this long. The homeowner led him through the dimly lit halls of the house, speaking in hurried, hushed tones Aleksandre couldn’t understand. But the meaning was clear enough. Every room they passed was already occupied—families huddled together, survivors claiming corners and spaces like territorial animals. When they finally stopped, it was in front of a large storage cupboard tucked beneath the staircase.

The man opened the door with a creak and gestured inside. Aleksandre understood. The cupboard was all that was left. He didn’t protest. Anything was better than being outside when night fell, when they came.

As the door swung fully open, Aleksandre peered into the shadowy space. It was surprisingly spacious for a cupboard, lined with old coats and boxes shoved against the walls. But what caught his attention wasn’t the size of the space—it was the figure sitting against the back wall.

Someone else was already there.