April 20th, 1983, The classroom was a stark, lifeless shell of a space, stripped of any humanity or warmth. The walls were bare except for a single Soviet flag hanging at the front, its bold red and gold dominating the room with an almost oppressive presence. A blackboard stretched across one wall, where Cyrillic letters were scrawled in stark white chalk. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly, their harsh glow casting an eerie pall over the already grim environment. At the front of the room, the instructor loomed like a shadow of control. His massive frame filled the space with an unspoken threat, his tailored uniform tight around his broad shoulders and muscular arms. The rifle slung casually across his back added weight to his intimidating presence, as if his sheer physicality weren't enough. His jawline, rigid and severe, gave him an almost statuesque quality, marred only by the deep scar running along his cheek—a cruel reminder of the battles he had undoubtedly survived. Every step he took sent sharp, heavy echoes through the room, and each of us flinched in unison.

I recognized him immediately. Two nights ago, his knock had shattered the silence of my apartment, and his sharp, clipped voice had sliced through what little remained of my resolve. "You will attend Russian classes," he had commanded, his words leaving no room for objection. "No English. No French. Russian and Chinese are the languages of unity." His piercing eyes, as unyielding as steel, had bored into me, scanning for any sign of defiance. Now, standing before us, he wielded a piece of chalk in one hand like it was a weapon. Each stroke on the board seemed deliberate, almost violent, as he wrote out the first phrase: Добрый день-dobry den. Beneath it, he added the English translation: Good day. "You will repeat after me," he barked, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade. "Dobry den'."

The room murmured the phrase in a fractured chorus, our voices trembling and uneven. Beside me, a young woman stammered, her voice so shaky it nearly broke. She looked barely more than twenty, her wide, fearful eyes darting nervously around the room. Her hands gripped the edge of her desk as though holding herself steady. She was trembling so badly that my heart ached despite the oppressive fear weighing on me. Without thinking, I slid my hand under the desk, my fingers searching for hers. For a moment, she froze, startled by the unexpected contact. Her wide eyes met mine, and I offered her the smallest, most reassuring nod I could muster. Slowly, she reached out, her cold, trembling hand gripping mine like a lifeline. Her fingers clung desperately, and I squeezed gently in return, hoping to steady her. The instructor spun around suddenly, his eyes snapping toward our side of the room, and we both froze, releasing each other's hands instinctively. His glare swept over us, sharp and probing, like he could sniff out fear and uncertainty. My heart pounded as I forced myself to stare straight ahead, my face carefully neutral. After a tense moment, he returned to his pacing, his boots pounding against the floor with brutal precision. "Louder!" he roared, slamming the chalk onto the desk at the front of the room. The sound ricocheted through the silence, making us jump. "You are not children! Repeat with conviction!"

"Dobry den'," we chanted in unison, our voices louder now, though they still trembled. The woman beside me stumbled over the pronunciation, her fear palpable. The instructor's boots thudded toward us, each step reverberating like a drumbeat of dread. He stopped beside her desk, his shadow swallowing her whole. "Stand!" he barked, his voice shaking the air. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her notebook like it might shield her from his fury. "Say it again!" he commanded, his tone cold and unrelenting. "Dobry den'." Her lips quivered as she repeated the phrase, her voice barely above a whisper. "Louder!" he growled, his presence overwhelming, his scarred face only inches from hers. Her second attempt was stronger, though her voice still faltered. He stared her down for another agonizing moment before turning away with a grunt of disdain. "Unacceptable," he muttered, moving on as if she were no more than a speck in his periphery. She sank back into her seat, her cheeks streaked with silent tears.

The lesson dragged on with more phrases—polite responses, formal greetings, and the official way to say goodbye. Each word tasted bitter, a forced erasure of the languages and identities that tied us to our pasts. "Do not mumble!" the instructor snapped at another journalist, slamming his palm down onto the man's desk. "Speak clearly, or you will regret it!" His aggression hung over the room like a storm cloud, suffocating any attempt at resistance. By the time he finally declared, "Class dismissed," we were all slumped in our seats, drained and defeated. The young woman beside me gathered her belongings with trembling hands, her gaze fixed on the floor as if afraid to meet anyone's eyes. As she turned to leave, she paused for the briefest moment, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you," she said, the words fragile but sincere. I nodded, unable to speak. Words were dangerous here. Connections were dangerous. Yet, as I walked out of the room and into the cold, grey world beyond, I couldn't shake the feeling that the simple act of holding her hand had been a tiny flicker of rebellion—proof that even in the face of overwhelming darkness, humanity endured.

With the bathroom key cold in my hand, I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The faint creak echoed in the otherwise silent, sterile space. The air was damp and chilly, carrying a faint metallic tang that only added to the oppressive gloom. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly, casting harsh reflections on the cracked white tiles. Setting the key on the edge of the sink, I stared into the mirror, my reflection pale and haggard. My hair was messy, loose strands clinging to the sweat on my brow, and dark shadows lingered under my eyes. I exhaled shakily, finally releasing the breath I'd been holding since leaving the classroom.

I had barely begun reapplying my makeup—a feeble attempt at maintaining composure—when the faint sound of sobbing broke through the quiet. My hand froze mid-stroke, the lipstick trembling in my grasp. The sound was coming from one of the stalls, the door left slightly ajar. My stomach twisted as I recognized her—the young woman from the Russian lessons. Her slight frame was curled up on the floor, knees hugged tightly to her chest. She was shivering violently, her blouse too thin to protect her from the cold that pervaded the room. Her soft sobs were barely audible, but they carried the weight of someone unraveling. My heart ached as I watched her, small and vulnerable, as though the world had crushed the fight out of her entirely. "Are you alright, dear?" I asked gently, my voice hesitant but sincere. She flinched, her head snapping up to reveal wide, tear-filled eyes. Her face was flushed, streaked with tears that glistened under the fluorescent light. Her lips quivered as she opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she buried her face against her knees, her sobs muffled.

I hesitated, unsure if approaching her would only make things worse, but something about her vulnerability pulled me closer. Slowly, I crouched down, careful to keep my voice soft. "It's okay," I murmured. "You're safe here." At first, there was no response, just the quiet sound of her shaky breathing and the occasional hiccupped sob. Then, finally, her voice broke the silence, fragile and raw. "I... I didn't mean to mess up. I tried, I really did..." She shook her head furiously, as if to banish the memory. "He yelled at me. I thought—" Her voice cracked, and she couldn't continue. "You did nothing wrong," I said firmly, trying to steady her spiraling thoughts. "That man..." My voice faltered for a moment as I suppressed my own anger. "He's a brute, and his cruelty isn't your fault. You were brave to stand there." Her shivering grew more intense, and I noticed her fingertips were turning pale from the cold. Without hesitation, I removed my scarf—a thick, woolen thing that had been shielding me from the city's unrelenting chill—and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. "Here," I said softly. "You're freezing."

She clutched the scarf like it was a lifeline, her trembling hands gripping the edges tightly. For a moment, her sobs quieted, though her breathing remained shallow. I stayed crouched beside her, giving her the space she needed. "What's your name?" I asked quietly, hoping to anchor her in something familiar. "Clara," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Clara Winters." I nodded, repeating her name gently. "Clara. My name is Suzanne. You're not alone, Clara. You're not the only one who's scared." Her gaze flicked to mine, and for a brief moment, her fear melted into something else—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of trust. But it didn't last. Her expression crumpled again, her voice trembling as she continued. "They took my brother," she said, the words spilling out in a broken rush. "He was only fourteen. They said he was 'spreading dissent.' But he wasn't. He was just a kid." Her shoulders shook as her sobs grew louder. "They dragged him away in the middle of the night, and now they're watching me. They're always watching. I thought if I just... if I followed the rules, maybe they'd leave me alone. But now I've messed up, and they'll—"

"They won't," I interrupted, my own voice trembling slightly. "You're doing everything they ask. You're surviving. That's all we can do right now. But you're not alone in this. Do you hear me, Clara? You're not alone." She nodded weakly, though the haunted look in her eyes remained. The weight of her trauma was palpable, an invisible anchor dragging her down. Her fear—of being watched, judged, and punished—was all too familiar. I felt it too, pressing against me every moment of every day. But seeing it reflected so plainly in Clara's trembling form made the weight unbearable.

The sound of heavy boots in the hallway shattered the fragile stillness. Clara's eyes widened in terror, and she clutched the scarf tighter, her entire body tensing. I stood quickly, extending a hand to help her up. "Come on," I said firmly. "You can't stay here." She hesitated for a heartbeat, then took my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. Together, we stepped out of the stall, her weight leaning into mine for support. At the sink, I grabbed the bathroom key, pausing briefly to glance at my reflection. My face was still pale, my lipstick smudged, but it no longer mattered. Clara's well-being mattered more. The door creaked open, and we stepped into the harsh, unfeeling corridor. The moment of solace was over, replaced once more by the cold, gray world outside. But as Clara adjusted the scarf around her shoulders and straightened her posture ever so slightly, I saw a faint spark of resolve in her eyes. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Even the smallest flickers of hope could burn brightly in the darkness.

Back in the corridor stretched ahead like a tunnel into despair, dimly lit and filled with the faint hum of surveillance drones hovering in the distance. Clara clung to my side, her steps unsteady and her trembling fingers clutching the scarf I had given her as though it might shield her from the horrors of this oppressive world. Her tear-streaked cheeks glistened faintly under the flickering light, and I could see her struggling to keep her breathing quiet and even. "Clara," I murmured softly, my tone low enough not to draw attention. "You have to stop tearing up. They'll see." Her wide, fearful eyes met mine, her lips trembling as she tried to nod. I placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, guiding her forward while my other hand gestured subtly for her to wipe her face. She sniffled once, then pressed the edge of the scarf against her eyes, dabbing away the last traces of tears. Her breathing still hitched every few steps, but at least she looked less fragile than before. The sound of boots approaching snapped both of us to attention. My grip on Clara's shoulder tightened, and I nudged her slightly to straighten her posture. The figure coming toward us was unmistakable—a soldier dressed in the dark uniform of the Chinese division, his presence radiating authority. His holster gleamed under the corridor's harsh light, the grip of a handgun protruding ominously at his side. His cold, narrow eyes locked onto us as we approached, his stride purposeful and intimidating.

"You two," he barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip, sharp and accented. "Get moving. NOW!" He punctuated the order with a jab of his finger toward the classroom door down the hall, his body rigid with command. His tone left no room for hesitation, and his glare lingered on me for just a second too long, as though daring me to challenge him. I felt Clara stiffen beside me, her trembling returning with full force. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the scarf tighter, her fear radiating off her in waves. If we weren't under a regime, if his handgun weren't just a swift reach away, I might have given him something to regret—a sharp rebuke or a well-aimed kick to his most delicate anatomy came to mind. But in this world, anger had to be swallowed, defiance buried beneath layers of submission. I forced my jaw to unclench and gave a brisk nod, pulling Clara gently along as we obeyed his command without a word. As we passed him, I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head, heavy with suspicion. It took every ounce of control to keep my steps steady and my expression neutral. Clara faltered slightly, her foot catching against the floor, and I tightened my grip on her shoulder to steady her. My pulse quickened, but I dared not look back.