Moscow, Russian Federation, April 27, 2027.
The Kremlin was bathed in the soft glow of an April evening. Outside the windows, the last patches of snow were melting, leaving murky puddles on the cobblestones of Red Square, while the first green shoots pushed through the thawing ground in Alexander Garden. Moscow buzzed with anticipation for the upcoming May holidays: along Tverskaya Street, tricolor flags and banners reading "Happy Victory Day!" were already being hung, and traffic on the Garden Ring grew denser due to parade rehearsals.
Inside the president's office, the usual workday hustle prevailed: the desk was cluttered with folders stamped "Top Secret" and printouts of May 9th event plans, while the laptop screen flashed General Staff briefings on military readiness. In the corner, an antique clock—a gift from a Kazan delegation—ticked steadily, counting down the minutes until the next meeting with regional governors.
Mikhail Viktorovich, who had taken office just two months ago following the March elections, sat in a heavy armchair, idly tapping his fingers on the leather armrest. His stern yet still "young" face—untouched by the wear of years in power—held a mix of concentration and mild irritation. Preparations for the holiday were fraught with minor disruptions: flower deliveries for wreaths were delayed, and Moscow's mayor had once again requested an extra billion rubles for the fireworks display. He wore a dark blue suit with a matching tie, though his jacket was draped casually over the chair—an unspoken sign that he was already settling into his role.
The office door swung open with a sharp creak, making Mikhail Viktorovich involuntarily wince. His aide, Andrei—a young man in his early thirties, dressed in a strict suit from Bolshevichka, with disheveled hair and eyes full of urgency—practically ran into the room. In his hands, he clutched a high-end tablet issued by the Presidential Administration, its screen flashing red emergency notifications.
"Mikhail Viktorovich!" Andrei's voice cracked, betraying his panic. "Apologies for barging in, but this can't wait!"
The president looked up from his documents, frowning slightly, and set down the gold-crested pen he had just used to underline a line in the parade rehearsal schedule.
"What now, Andrei?" he asked calmly but with a hint of wariness. "Another weather issue threatening the parade?"
"No, this is… something else entirely," Andrei exhaled, stepping closer and nearly dropping the tablet onto the Kremlin-patterned carpet. "Roscosmos just reported—something strange is happening over the Urals. They're calling it an anomaly. And it's… growing!"
Mikhail Viktorovich slowly rose from his chair, straightening his shoulders. His gaze sharpened—the look of a man accustomed to assessing situations instantly.
"An anomaly?" he repeated, stepping toward the window overlooking Spasskaya Tower. "Some kind of industrial accident? A test site explosion? Be specific, Andrei."
The aide swallowed hard, trying to steady his hands, and hurriedly scrolled through the data, which now displayed the first satellite images and graphs.
"Mr. President, it started about an hour ago, at 5:43 PM Moscow time. At first, Roscosmos thought it was a malfunction—Chelyabinsk Station flagged an error. But then GLONASS and Cosmos-2589 satellites picked up the same readings: strange atmospheric distortions over Yekaterinburg. Air pressure is dropping, radio signals are crackling like during a solar storm—but worse. Scientists say it doesn't resemble anything they've seen before. And… the affected area is expanding. Rapidly—about 50 kilometers in the last half hour."
The president turned to him, his brows knitting together. A heavy silence filled the office, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock.
"Why am I only hearing about this now?" Mikhail Viktorovich's voice was firmer now, carrying the steel edge familiar to those who had seen him during his tenure as Security Council head. "Where's the report from the Ministry of Emergency Situations? From the FSB?"
"It happened too suddenly," Andrei defended, nervously fidgeting with his sleeve. "Roscosmos tried to verify it themselves at first, but fifteen minutes ago, they escalated it to the General Staff and directly to us. Dr. Koloshev, the chief astrophysicist from Korolyov, is on the line. He's ready to report personally."
As if on cue, the black phone on the desk—the direct line—gave a short ring. Mikhail Viktorovich returned to his seat, picked up the receiver, and pressed the speakerphone button so Andrei could listen in.
"This is the president speaking," he stated curtly, skipping formalities.
A measured but tense voice came through, tinged with the slight accent of a man accustomed to scientific jargon.
"Mikhail Viktorovich, this is Dr. Koloshev from Roscosmos, Institute of Space Research. Glad you're on the line. We are observing an anomaly over the Urals, and it… defies our understanding. This isn't a storm, an industrial accident, or a natural disaster in the conventional sense. Satellites are detecting unexplained energy surges in the upper atmosphere. Air pressure and temperature in the area are dropping in a nonlinear pattern, and radio waves are distorting. The affected zone is expanding exponentially. If this rate continues, it could reach Moscow within 28 hours—or even further."
The president was silent for a moment, absorbing the information, then leaned in closer to the phone, resting his palms on the desk.
"Energy surges?" he asked. "Is this some American experiment? Or did the Chinese drop a satellite? Give me something to work with, Koloshev."
"We can't say for certain," the scientist admitted, a rare note of uncertainty in his voice. "It doesn't resemble a weapon—there's no radiation, electromagnetic pulse, or chemical emissions. But it's also unlike any natural phenomenon. Pressure and temperature are behaving as if the laws of physics… are breaking down. Ground stations in Yekaterinburg and Perm report visual anomalies: people describe the air shimmering, like a heatwave, and there are power grid failures in some districts. Communication is deteriorating—mobile towers within a 70-kilometer radius of the epicenter have already gone silent."
Mikhail Viktorovich glanced at Andrei, who stood frozen, his face pale, gripping the tablet so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"Alright," the president finally said, his voice heavy with decision, the tone of a man accustomed to making tough calls. "Andrei, alert everyone—Defense Ministry, Emergency Situations, FSB, National Guard. Emergency meeting in the Council Hall in an hour. Koloshev, Roscosmos will report updates every 30 minutes—no 'we don't know' answers. I need options: what this is, how to stop it, and what the worst-case scenario is. If we lose contact with the Urals, start planning evacuations for major cities in its path."
"Understood," Koloshev responded. "We've already mobilized a team in Koloshev, bringing in physicists from Novosibirsk and Moscow State University. Next update at 7:00 PM."
The line clicked off. Mikhail Viktorovich turned toward the window, gazing out at Moscow. Below, near the Kremlin walls, tourists took photos by the Tsar Cannon, schoolchildren rehearsed a march with little flags. No one suspected that, thousands of miles to the east, reality itself had begun to unravel.
"Distortions…" he murmured, clenching his fist until his knuckles cracked. "Alright. We'll handle it. Not the first time."
Outside, the evening sun gilded the cathedral domes, but the shadow of the unknown was already creeping over the country—an omen that this year, even the Victory Day parade might remain only a plan.