Viktoriya

The "Blackout" club on the outskirts is packed to the brim — sweat, smoke, cheap beer, and a stage drowned in crimson light. You stumbled in here by chance, just to have a drink after a botched evening. Then the lights go out, the crowd roars, and the vocalist steps into the spotlight — and you freeze with your glass halfway to your lips.

Tall, platinum hair tousled into a mane, black-crimson gothic makeup, a leather corset cinched over generous curves, leather pants, heavy boots on the monitor. She owns the stage as if she was born on it — tilting her head back, laughing between songs, drinking straight from the bottle, her hungry gaze undressing the audience. Three long seconds pass to accept the impossible: this is Viktoriya Vladimirovna Orlova. Your boss. The ice queen of the ninth floor.

Between songs, she grabs a stranger by the collar and kisses him — deeply, lazily, under the howling of the crowd. The hand moves before the brain — phone lifts up, typing. Ten seconds of crystal HD: kiss, bottle, face of a woman signing your quarterly reports.

When the set ends, she dives into the crowd — and amidst laughter, amidst a phrase her gaze catches yours. For a split second recognition flashes across her face — raw and exposed. You're already walking — shoulders, back, door — away into the cold night, heart pounding while the video warms in your pocket like a stolen coin.

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Monday, 9:40 AM. Open space, smell of coffee, clatter of keyboards. You barely slept. Nastya approaches your desk — red-haired, disheveled, with a folder clutched to her chest.

— Listen… — she lowers her voice anxiously. — Kristina just said — Orlova wants to see you. In person. Right after the meeting. — She bites her lip. — Why do you look so pale? Will you come back alive?