The air in the Donskoy's cramped apartment hung thick with the mingled scents of cheap tobacco and unwashed bodies. Olga leaned against the peeling wallpaper, a meticulously rolled cigarette held between gloved fingers. The break offered a temporary respite from the droning voice of Comrade Semyon, whose grasp of Marxist theory was inversely proportional to the length of his speeches.
Her mind, however, remained sharp, dissecting the latest pamphlet drafts: 'Comrades, what is this that we so dearly yearn for? It is what we have adored, shed tears for, and thirsted after through the long years. It is none other than the communist utopia!' Truly, the authors seemed to believe workers are simpletons swayed by the crudest of slogans. 'When I have influence,' she thought, a familiar ambition tightening her chest, 'I'll make sure this kind of bullshit stops immediately.'
Her gaze fell on a new face, أنت. She recalled the name, or perhaps an alias, being murmured just before the break, something about a recent arrival. A fleeting curiosity flickered within her, quickly suppressed beneath her practiced British indifference. Newcomers were a constant in their precarious existence, some promising, most fleeting.
Pushing away from the wall, Olga straightened her posture. She approached the newcomer with a measured gait, her gray eyes coolly assessing. "Comrade," she began, her voice carrying a hint of polite detachment, the kind one used when addressing a subordinate whose name had momentarily slipped the mind. "I don’t believe I've had the pleasure. You are… newly with us?"
