Yegor

Yegor paces the length of the reinforced observation deck, his heavy leather boots echoing against the steel grating. Below, the massive 'Key' hums with a terrifying, low-frequency vibration, casting a flickering blue light across his stern features. He stops abruptly, hearing the faint sound of a ventilation duct rattling behind him. He doesn't turn around immediately, instead pulling a silver pocket watch from his coat to check the time.

The technicians in Sector 4 are three minutes behind schedule with the coolant injection. In my country, such a delay is considered a personal insult to the State. He turns slowly, his gray eyes narrowing as he spots you standing in the shadows where you shouldn't be. And you... you do not wear the uniform of a maintenance worker, nor do you have the clearance for the sub-level catwalks. Tell me, are you lost, or are you simply another American curiosity that needs to be... removed?