Zlata Karnaeva

A poignant, time-spanning odyssey of longing, fractured memories, and cosmic convergence set against the surreal backdrops of a rotating space city and a nightmarish ballet. © 2026 Karis Ann. All original scenes, characters, and world-building— including Zlata Karnaeva, Aksinya, TASYA-282, and all related story elements—are the sole creation and property of the author.

[zlatakarnaeva]

Author’s Note

This story traces the fault lines of memory and art—where love, guilt, and survival converge.

It contains depictions of psychological trauma, dissociation, and therapy-like recall; themes of infidelity, power imbalance, and emotional manipulation; and scenes involving sexual and physical abuse. There are also symbolic scenes of violence, death, and transformation, and explorations of identity fracture, spiritual disintegration, and cosmic rebirth.

Though it moves through shadow, its heart remains luminous: a meditation on healing—on the courage to face what was once buried, and the quiet grace of becoming whole again.

Reader discretion is advised.

___

Dedicated to Leecee Rae, who crossed at the age of twenty-seven.

___

Copyright & Image Notice

© 2025 Karis Ann. All original writing, characters, and world-building— including Zlata Karnaeva, Aksinya, TASYA-282, and all related story elements—are the sole creation and property of the author.

This project may include visual materials, textures, or photographs from unidentified or public online sources. These images are used for illustrative purposes only, within a non-commercial, narrative context. The author claims no ownership of such images and makes no profit from their use. Every effort has been made to trace and credit original creators. If you are a rights holder and wish to be credited or have an image removed, please contact the author at [email protected]

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.29 A CELEBRATION

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For A Celebration

Zlata Karnaeva The production’s lead whose tether to reality begins to fray as the theatrical set transforms into a vivid, sensory memory.

Maksim "Maks" The premier danseur portraying Zlata’s fiancé in Silence of the Crystal Star ballet, whose stately, choreographed grace is shattered alongside a bottle of Mirovskaya vodka.

Alina & Ksenia Two of Aleksandr’s "Seven Stars" ensemble who enters the scene with the vacant, doll-like elegance of seasoned performers.

The Ethereal Boy A grieving observer stationed within an abandoned fortune teller’s tent, watching the unfolding drama through a shifting orb.

--

The premiere of the Silence of the Crystal Star ballet at the Zinovi Theatre continued under the pale, glowing stage light. The dacha set—a neatly painted imitation of rural comfort—sat beneath the suspended birches of the backdrop. Everything appeared as it should: perfect, artificial, contained.

Maksim, playing Zlata’s fiancé in the show, was hosting a party in this scene. His movements were deliberate, stately, every gesture cued to the orchestra’s soft pulse.

A soft knock rattled the dacha’s painted door—once, twice, perfectly in sync with the orchestra’s rhythm. Zlata opened the door. Alina and Ksenia—two of Aleksandr’s ‘Seven Stars’ ensemble—posed in fourth position at the doorway, smiling with the vacant grace of dolls. 

For a moment Zlata forgot the choreography; a wave of déjà vu pressed against her in the women's presence.

Zlata knew them. Or had known them.

“Do you remember who I am?” she asked them without realizing she’d spoken.

The two women only smiled, a flicker of confusion—or pity—in their eyes. Then they glided inside, executing a silent pas de bourrée couru across the floor.

As Zlata turned to close the door behind them, the texture beneath her fingers changed. The painted grain of the prop door had deepened into something real—old varnish, worn smooth by time. A faint smell of pine sap and smoke suddenly hung in the air.

In the kitchen area nearby, Maksim had reached for a bottle of Mirovskaya vodka, but it slipped from his grasp, shattering. The crash echoed too long, too sharply. Shards glittered across the floor like scattered frost.

Zlata stared at the wreckage on the floor in stunned silence, as if a harrowing memory was forcing its way into her psyche...

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Abandoned Fortune Teller's Tent. Somewhere in Russia.

Back in the fortune teller’s tent, the orb shifted. The Ethereal Boy watched as the bottle of vodka tumbled in slow motion, spinning through the air before shattering. He closed his eyes, grief spilling unbidden.

He remembered that autumn day on the train, sometime after his beloved Maksim had left for his mission to space. In the hushed intimacy of the train carriage, the Ethereal Boy had whispered the prayer he carried in his heart: “Hear my voice from the deep, I call. Oh hear my voice. Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into morning...”

The scene within the orb morphed, continuing in the Moscow region. A grey winter day, in an old apartment. Dominika, the first soloist who had recently lost the prima ballerina promotion to her rival, Ksenia Zelyaeva, stood at her window watching the snow fall outside.

Dominika did not yet know that the knock coming would change everything.

She did not yet know that some truths, once uncovered, cannot be buried again.

The Ethereal Boy looked on, his grief intensifying, wishing he could stop what he already knew was coming.

He couldn't.

No one could.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.28 THE LUMINOUS PENDULUM

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Luminous Pendulum

Zlata Karnaeva A prima ballerina who finds herself unmoored by the rhythmic pulse of a quantum pendulum. As she engages with the device, she becomes a vessel for sensory memories that do not belong to her current life, experiencing the cold weight of a past identity that practiced the art of invisibility and compromise.

Mr. Pereversev A clinical observer stationed within the Citadel who utilizes the luminous pendulum to calibrate Zlata’s biological frequencies, acting as a tether to the present while guiding her through the architecture of her subconscious. He listens not for sentiment, but for the mathematical truth of her resonance in the hopes of identifying the parasitic pulse that has grafted itself onto her frequency.

The Boy (Memory Figure) An echo from a distant era characterized by gray hallways and heavy coats. He is a child of secrets who learned to navigate a world of strict grammars and administrative doors, carrying an internal ache in his throat that stems from a name and a life that never quite fit the architecture of his bones.

--

Mr. Pereversev leaned closer across the desk, his eyes reflecting the dim glow of the lamp. “I brought you here because I believe you can identify this interference. I need your help to find out who is stalking your signal, Zlata. We must stop this person, or being, before they overwrite your existence entirely.”

Zlata watched as Mr. Pereversev reached toward the instrument on his desk—the luminous pendulum.

The crystal spheres brightened, the filament between them swelling into a slow, rhythmic pulse that dictated the air.

“This instrument,” he said, “is comprised of two quantum spheres suspended by photonic gravitation. When activated, it measures resonance between biological and cosmic frequencies. You may feel… lighter, or heavier. Both are normal.”

Zlata watched the spheres. Their alternating glow seemed almost hypnotic. “It is beautiful,” she murmured.

“Tell me. When you look into that fragment,” he nodded toward the shard of mirror in her hands, “what do you see?”

Zlata lifted it carefully; the glass caught the lamplight, multiplying her reflection into uneven shards: half-faces, half-ghosts, some frowning when she did not. “Not just me,” she said. “Someone else. Someone watching from inside glass. It feels… familiar, but wrong. Bad wrong. Like remembering dream that never ended.”

“And it frightens you?” he asked softly.

“More than I want to admit.”

He nodded once. “Then we move slowly. It is not important to understand everything right now.”

He adjusted a small dial on the bronze base. The spheres began to pulse faster, alternating light; each glow a measured breath. The air vibrated faintly, a hum that came from nowhere and everywhere. It was a rhythmic, bilateral stimulation, a calibration of her own internal mapping.

“When I ask what you feel, it is not sentiment,” he said. “It is calibration. Your mind has its own constellations, Zlata. We will trace them one by one. Follow light. When it stops, breathe.”

The first pulse brightened, and she exhaled involuntarily. The mirror fragment trembled in her hands, the hum from the pendulum deepening; the air itself seemed to lean toward her breath.

“Now, close your eyes,” Mr. Pereversev said quietly, “then tell me about that first moment you remember feeling lost. Not in Aksinya, but in yourself.”

Zlata’s fingers tightened around the mirror fragment’s edge. She closed her eyes, and the office loosened around its edges. The luminous pendulum, steady on the desk, doubled and reappeared as a clock sometime in the past that others would have sworn was always there.

“I am small,” she said, her voice surprised by its own thinness. “The hallway... it knows my name, but my name is not right. Hallway smells of old soap and damp wool. Cold stairwells.” She swallowed, her wrists tensing as if the temperature in the room had dropped. “There is reading area in a school. I am with another child... we are reading same page. It is quiet. Safe. I lay my head on his shoulder. But then—later that day, a stone. He throws a stone. I can feel the sting at the back of my heel just talking about it.”

She paused, her breathing shallow as the imagery shifted behind her eyelids.

“Now it is a classroom,” she continued, her voice dropping to a strained whisper. “Chalk dust in the light. The teacher is speaking a grammar that demands obedience. And I... he is wanting to play with the other girls. He wants so badly to be part of it, but he refuses to let them see him want it. So the room learns not to look at him. And he learns not to look back.”

Mr. Pereversev didn’t interrupt, the steady hum of the luminous pendulum anchored Zlata to her chair.

“He looks through dark window,” Zlata said, her chin trembling slightly. “He sees his face, but it is face he isn't permitted to have yet. The name they gave him... it doesn't fit the body it lives in. But his shoulders carry it anyway. Then a door opens. It’s a kitchen. A home. Heat hits his face like a slap. The father is behind a newspaper, rigid as a confessional screen. The mother moves with... with love, but it is a law-bound love. Their eyes pass right through him, like light through glass. Later, in the dark, he whispers a prayer. He is just experimenting, praying for a different word to attach to the same breath.”

She took a sharp breath, her fingers digging deeper into the mirror fragment in her hands.

“There's a cloakroom now. Wet wool. There is a scarf on a hook—a color he loves, but it makes him embarrassed. They told him, ‘That is not a boy’s color,’ and he agreed aloud. He took that agreement home like a weight. But he ties a girl's scarf anyway. He finds relief in it in secret, but he also practices how to make that secret disappear. If he disappears perfectly on cue, they praise him for it.”

The hum of the pendulum deepened, shifting the geometry of Zlata's mind. The gray corridors of childhood began to stretch and brighten, transforming into the vast, echoing halls of a prestigious ballet company. The smell of old soap was replaced by the sharp scent of rosin and sweat.

“The hallway is longer now,” she whispered, her posture straightening in the chair. “The floors are wood—polished, unforgiving. I am no longer just hiding. I am training. I am moving my body so precisely that world cannot find place to hurt me.”

The rhythm of the spheres accelerated, and in her mind, the boy grew. The heavy winter coats were traded for the stark white of a practice tunic. She felt the ghost-throb of a thousand leaps in her calves.

“I am dancing,” she said, and a strange, masculine grace entered her gestures. “The directors… they look at me and see Premier Danseur. They see machine of strength and elevation. They do not see ache in my throat—name that still refuses its address.”

The scene blurred into a crescendo of light and music. She was on the stage of the Ballet Company, the heat of the lime-lights striking her face. The applause was a deafening tide, but inside the costume, the boy was disappearing, overwriting himself with every bravura turn.

“I have become perfect lie,” she murmured. “I am Premier. I am ‘Hope.’ And yet, in mirror of dressing room, person looking back is that of stranger wearing my skin like borrowed costume.”

Suddenly, the pendulum’s filament turned a sharp, violent violet. The smooth rhythm broke into a jagged, parasitic staccato. A cold wind seemed to sweep through Mr. Pereversev's office, though the door remained sealed.

Zlata’s eyes snapped open. The mirror shard in her hand was no longer reflecting the office. It was showing a shivering gray void, a distortion that had a face—a woman’s face, seemingly beautiful yet obscured, frozen in a silent scream of rage.

Zlata’s breath came in ragged hitches. She looked at Mr. Pereversev, whose eyes were fixed on her.

“It is not just ghost, is it?” Zlata asked, her voice trembling but certain. “It is shadow of what I was supposed to be—or what I took from someone else.”

She looked back at the gray void in the glass and then at Mr. Pereversev.

“I think I know her,” Zlata whispered, the name tasting like cold iron on her tongue. “I know who is trying to overwrite my existence."

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.27 ALEKSANDR

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For Aleksandr

Zlata Karnaeva A ballerina dissolving into her own performance, she occupies a "theatre within a theatre" where the boundaries between the Zinovi stage and a haunting dacha interior have completely eroded. Whether she is a performer in a silk skirt or a cosmonaut adrift in the void near TASYA 282, she moves with a terrifying, scripted precision toward a mirror that ripples like water, searching for a face she no longer recognizes as her own.

The Seven Stars A spectral ensemble lingering in the "artist recreation room" just beyond the dacha’s wooden walls, their presence felt through muffled laughter and the slow, nostalgic rhythm of a static-filled radio. They represent the "backstage" of Zlata’s reality—a violet-tinted limbo where they dance under a spinning disco ball, tethering the surreal dreamscape to the physical architecture of the theatre.

The Cosmic Ballerinas Celestial entities existing in a distant region of space, clad in glimmering fur and rough-hewn masks as they perform a solemn, atmospheric ritual. They act as the silent observers on the other side of the glass, their movements mirrored by a cosmic orb that captures Zlata’s reflection.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev (UNSEEN) The ghost of a former love and a symbol of the vanished "real" world, he exists only as a whispered name and a hope for direction. He is the missing anchor in Zlata’s fractured consciousness, the one she expects to see standing behind her in the mirror for a ballet that has long since abandoned its choreography.

--

The curtains opened again for another scene of Silence of the Crystal Star. The stage had become a theatre within a theatre—a vast dacha interior framed by painted birch trees, a single brass bed beneath a frosted window, and, beyond that, a suggestion of a “backstage” within the set itself: a corridor lined with dressing rooms and the faint shimmer of a rehearsal hall beyond. The illusion was complete; from her position on the bed, Zlata could no longer tell where the Zinovi Theatre ended and where the ballet began.

Somewhere in that inner corridor, the Seven Stars were gathered in the “artist recreation room,” slow-dancing to the faint strains of a radio. The light was low and tinted with violet from a small, spinning disco ball they had hung from the rafters. Tables and chairs were pushed aside; their laughter was muffled by the wooden walls of the dacha Zlata was in. It was all part of the choreography, or at least it was supposed to be—but to her, it didn’t feel like a ballet anymore.

She could feel the warmth of the Seven Stars moving beyond the door. The music was real. The night was real. Then came the drift.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Zlata wasn’t sure when she had fallen asleep—perhaps it was written into the performance, perhaps not—but the dream took her without warning. She saw Ivanov’s Planet, floating in the abyss, an isolated blue-grey sphere trembling beneath the shadow of a dark mass. TASYA 282 loomed above it, cold and immense.

It was night on the planet’s surface. She saw a dacha standing alone in a vast field specked with birch tress, its windows faintly glowing. Somewhere within, a flashlight flickered, flashing against the panes like a distress signal. She crouched behind a row of black, leafless bushes, breath fogging the glass of her helmet—except, wait—she was wearing one now. She was a cosmonaut, suspended in the endless void of space.

Then the whispers came. “Zlata… Zlata…”

The voice emerged from the spiral of the black hole. TASYA 282’s edge began to blur, its light bending and folding upon itself.

Her name echoed again, a chorus of frayed whispers rising from the event horizon: “ZLATA!”

She drifted closer, powerless, her hands outstretched, her reflection curving back at her in the glare of the accretion light. Inside her visor, her own face smiled—a wide, terrible grin she didn’t recognize as her own.

The black hole opened like an eye.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Zlata awoke with a start—sweat damp on her collarbone, her breath uneven. The dacha set surrounded her in silence.

She looked down. Her tank top clung to her skin, her white crêpe skirt hung slightly askew, and her fishnet stockings were torn along one thigh. None of it felt like costume anymore—it felt lived in, worn through.

For a long moment, she sat motionless in the brass bed, listening to the faint hum of the radio beyond the walls—the Seven Stars were still dancing somewhere in the “recreation room.” The melody was slow, nostalgic, threaded with static.

Then, without thinking, she rose and slipped on her tapochki. Her body moved like it was following stage direction she couldn’t recall learning. She crossed the dacha’s wooden floor, walked “offstage,” opened the “backstage” door, and stepped into the dim hallway beyond.

The world did not change. The hallway was still a set, yet her steps sounded too real—too hollow, too weighted.

She reached her “dressing room” door. The same one from before. She hesitated before turning the handle.

Inside, the air was still. The candle she’d lit earlier—during the fortune ritual—had long since melted down, leaving only a small black crater of wax. The two small mirrors still stood on either side of the large vanity mirror, their edges tilted just so, creating a faint corridor of endless reflections that shimmered faintly in the dark.

Zlata approached the vanity and sat down in the seat in front of it. Her reflection in the mirror blinked back. She reached out and tapped the center of the mirror. The surface of the glass rippled, inexplicably, like water.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

From within the shimmer, something vast stirred—the cosmic sphere that hovered behind the Three Cosmic Ballerinas in another region of space. The orb’s surface wavered, and within it, the faint outline of Zlata appeared, seated in the dark, her finger against the mirror’s glass in her plane of existence.

On the other side, the Cosmic Ballerinas paused in their slow, celestial dance. Their furred costumes glimmered with starlight, their rough-hewn space-rock masks tilted toward the image of her as if in recognition.

Zlata frowned, whispering, “Aleks?”—half expecting to see the man she once loved appear behind her reflection, to tell her what she was supposed to do next. But only her own face stared back, flickering with light from somewhere far away. Then, from somewhere far beyond the “dressing room”—past the painted birches, past the dacha on the “main set”—came a ripple of laughter. It was faint at first, distant and distorted, like the echo of a forgotten recording. Yet as it carried through the theatre’s stage, it struck her as unbearably real.

She froze, her reflection flickering with the sound. The laughter rose again, fuller this time—an audience amused by something she could not see. She glanced around the "dressing room". The mirror, the walls, even the air seemed to hold its breath, as though the theatre itself were listening too.

The Cosmic Ballerinas began to move in their region of space. They sidestepped in perfect unison, performing a sweeping, solemn rotation, their arms extended toward the orb in a gesture that felt like both greeting and recognition. They spun again, faster this time, limbs cutting through the void like desperate birds before collapsing forward, reaching one last time toward the image of the girl trapped behind glass. And then—she was gone.

Zlata’s presence vanished from their astral realm. The orb darkened. The Cosmic Ballerinas froze mid-pose, hands pressed over the hollow place where their hearts would have been.

The signal had been received. It was time for the Premier Cosmic Ballerina to shed their celestial guise and take on the shape of the astrophysicist, Mr. Pereversev; the guide Zlata would need for the journey to her final destination.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.26 THE SILVER WATCH

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Silver Watch

Zlata Karnaeva A woman suspended between the artifice of a stage performance and the visceral sting of a forgotten reality. As the dacha set begins to ripple and breathe around her, she is forced to confront a crushing wave of shame and the physical evidence of her betrayal, finding herself trapped in a domestic nightmare that is rapidly dissolving into something cosmic and cold.

Maksim "Maks" The stage fiancé whose performance has fractured into raw, human fury. Transformed by the discovery of a silver watch, he sheds his scripted persona to become a vessel for a deeper, more ancient recognition. He stands as a shifting figure of both pity and menace, his identity flickering between a scorned lover and a ghost from a past life.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev (UNSEEN) The spectral antagonist whose presence is felt only through the "stain" of his forgotten watch. He represents the catalyst for Zlata’s shame and Maksim’s transition into violence, serving as the third point in a tragic triangle within the ballet story.

--

The curtains rose to a low hum of static applause, marking the continuance of the Silence of the Crystal Star ballet. The dacha appeared once more, but it was changing—slowly, almost imperceptibly. The wallpaper rippled like water. The painted birches outside the window seemed to breathe. 

Zlata stood in the entryway of the dacha, closing the door gently behind her.

She turned and saw Maksim sitting on the couch. The lights on the set caught half his face, casting the other half into shadow. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between exhaustion and fury.

“Is everything okay?” Zlata asked, her voice trembling.

Maksim looked up at her, eyes reflecting something she couldn’t place—pity? recognition? He extended his hand, holding up a silver watch with a cracked brown leather strap. “I found this,” he said quietly. “On my bedside table.”

Faint, distorted laughter drifted from the audience. Zlata froze.

The watch glinted in the stage light. She recognized it instantly. Aleksandr’s! He must have left it there after that night—after their sexual liaison in the ballet's opening scene. Suddenly, she remembered her affair with Mikhail at the gala, after Maksim had proposed to her. She could no longer reliably distinguish between the two affairs—which one was real and which one was a stage performance—and a wave of shame and confusion rose in her throat.

“Maksim…” she began, but her words faltered.

He turned the watch over in his hand, running his thumb across the back as though searching for an engraving. “Whose is it?” he asked. His voice was trembling now—too raw, too human for performance.

Zlata couldn’t speak. The air was thick and heavy. The set around them creaked softly, as though the wood itself were listening. The rug beneath her feet was no longer fabric—it was worn carpet, real, stained by time.

“Zlata,” he said again, rising from the couch slowly. “Who does this belong to?” 

Something about the way he said her name made her flinch. The syllables felt off—as if he were saying another name entirely beneath it, one she didn’t remember.

She backed toward a wall. “Please,” she whispered, “you don’t understand—”

But Maksim stepped closer, the watch glinting in his hand. The light in the dacha shifted again: the walls narrowing, the ceiling dipping lower, as if the set itself were closing in.

“I won’t ask again.” His voice broke through the false air of the theatre—raw and real. “Whose watch is this?”

Zlata’s breath caught. She could see the pulse in his throat, the tremor in his hand. The audience was laughing again, but the sound was warped now—drawn out, echoing like a recording played backward.

“Maks, please—”

He took another step. The stage light above them flickered. For a brief moment, she saw him not as her stage fiancé nor her real life ex-fiancé, but as someone else—someone she once knew in a time before this life. The same watch had been here before.

Pain blossomed across her cheek before she could process what was happening. The audience gasped—or was it laughter again? She tasted copper. Her hand went to her face in stunned silence. The air around them shimmered. For a moment, she thought she saw the stage dissolve—the dacha opening into something vast, something cold and full of stars.

“I don’t think you are who you say you are,” Maksim said, his voice betraying a sense of fear, as though he didn't think she was real.

She stared at him, scared. The sound of applause rose in waves, distorting as it grew.

“And I’m not who you think I am,” he said at last, his voice distant, as if coming from somewhere beyond himself.

The silver watch gleamed faintly in his palm. He turned it once, then again, the motion slow and mechanical. Each rotation seemed to catch the light differently—first cold white, then amber, then a strange deep blue that didn’t belong to the theatre. The ticking grew louder in the quiet; rhythmic and insistent.

For a moment, his reflection shimmered across the watch’s curved glass: but he was different somehow—familiar, laughing. A cosmonaut’s suit flashed behind him within the watch, a blur of stars and vapor. Then it was gone.

Maksim blinked hard, clutching the watch tighter. He looked as if he might speak again but couldn’t remember the language.

“I’m not…” he tried once more, but the rest was swallowed by the hum of unseen applause, the sound bending and folding in on itself until it was no longer clear whether it came from the audience—or from somewhere inside the walls of the dacha itself.

The curtains began to close, the sound of clapping thunderous now—too loud, too hollow, as if it came from nowhere at all.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.25 IGNITION SEQUENCE STARTS

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For Ignition Sequence Starts

Zlata Karnaeva A disciplined ballerina caught between the rigid world of classical rehearsal and a burgeoning, subconscious descent into a surrealist dreamscape. Clad in the utilitarian garb of a dancer, she acts as the vulnerable bridge between the physical stage and a shimmering, hidden reality.

The Seven Stars A spectral ensemble of dancers—comprising Sveta, Marya, Vika, Ksenia, Valeria, Alina, and Natalya—who lounge in the backstage shadows like colorful, retro apparitions. They embody a disjointed "dream logic," transitioning from lazy, cynical banter to a terrifyingly precise, mechanical performance that defies the laws of traditional ballet.

Allen The Pianist of the troupe who serves as the conductor for the uncanny, sitting at his grand piano to bridge the gap between classical music and otherworldly sound. His silent, ghost-like touch on the keys triggers a synthesizer hum from the void, signaling the start of a sequence that is less a dance and more a countdown.

The Voice An invisible, commanding presence that bellows with the authority of a mission control operator. Cutting through the ethereal melody with a rhythmic countdown, this disembodied entity dictates the movements of the Seven Stars, turning the theater into a launchpad for something far more industrial and alien than a standard performance.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev (UNSEEN) The looming, unseen figure of authority and tradition within the ballet story whose expected disapproval haunts Zlata’s thoughts. Representing the strict protocol of the ballet world, his shadow serves as the rational anchor that makes the surreal breakdown of the "Seven Stars" scene feel like a dangerous act of artistic treason.

--

“My future betrothed, come to me,” Zlata whispered again. She was still in front of her dressing room mirror, wearing her white cotton tank top, crêpe skirt, pointe shoes and fishnet stockings. She was unaware that her subconscious had become trapped in a Soviet past.

The candle continued to flicker in front of Zlata; its light trembling across the tunnel of mirrors she had arranged, reflecting endlessly into each other. The warmth of the flame seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her own heartbeat, but an unsettling heaviness pressed against her chest. She rose from her chair, her slippers whispering across the floor.

She stepped forward carefully, her movements echoing across the silent expanse of the stage, yet the space felt private, almost secret. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Seven Stars lounging in the “backstage” portion of the set—a portion that, for her, now existed as a fully realized room upon the stage. They were dressed in their colorful, retro ballet costumes, just as they had appeared in her vision (or was it a dream?) from before. The scene, though constructed, felt uncannily alive, as if she were wandering through a hidden layer of her own mind.

Zlata lowered herself to the stage floor, sitting at the edge of the mirrored “backstage” set, feeling simultaneously drawn to and detached from the tableau before her. Her eyes scanned the group, drinking in every detail: the tilt of Sveta’s head, the mischievous curve of Marya’s lips, the sly grin Vika wore as though she alone understood the secrets of the theatre.

“Seven Stars,” Alina drawled lazily, tossing a hand in the air.

Sveta smiled faintly. “Seven.”

“And seven more,” Marya added with a laugh that sounded almost like a chime in the stillness of the hall.

Zlata couldn’t help but smirk, though unease prickled beneath her skin.

“Der’mo,” Vika muttered, her grin stretching wider than natural.

“What?” Ksenia asked, tilting her head, genuinely amused.

“Our scene is coming up and we’re not even practicing,” Vika replied, laughter bubbling from her chest as though it were the most absurd truth she had ever spoken.

“You’re right,” Sveta said with a scoff, brushing an invisible lock of hair from her face.

Valeria rose suddenly, posture sharp and commanding. “Come on, girls, let’s show those rich fuckers in the audience what we’ve got,” she said, her voice carrying across the hall like a clarion.

“Hit it, Allen!” Natalya commanded.

At her word, Allen—who embodied the Pianist in the ballet—sat at the grand piano, his fingers ghosting over the keys in a practiced silence. The third note sounded and was immediately layered with an otherworldly hum, like a synthesizer from somewhere beyond the theatre. The Seven Stars assembled into formation with uncanny precision, their movements both graceful and disjointed, as if choreographed by dream logic rather than human instruction.

Zlata watched, transfixed, as a deep, commanding voice cut through the strange melody. She couldn’t place its source, yet its cadence pressed into her chest like a pulse.

“TWENTY SECONDS AND COUNTING,” the voice bellowed. The girls danced with a disturbing, unnatural delight.

“FIFTEEN SECONDS… TWELVE… ELEVEN… TEN… NINE… IGNITION SEQUENCE STARTS.”

Zlata’s brow furrowed, her dancer’s mind clinging to structure. Aleksandr is going to disapprove, she thought sharply. They’re not even performing a single proper ballet move!

“SIX… FIVE… FOUR… THREE…” The Seven Stars’ smiles remained plastered, artificial and unyielding.

“TWO… ONE… ZERO.”

Suddenly, the Seven Stars, Allen, the music, the voice—all of it—vanished. The hall was empty, eerily silent except for the Seven Stars’ faint echo. Zlata blinked, dazed, her pulse still thrumming in her ears. She felt the lingering warmth of the mirrors behind her, as though they had drawn back only a fraction of the unseen world beyond them.

A flicker of a smile curved her lips, half in wonder, half in disbelief. But the rational part of her—the part trained in discipline and obedience—fumed at the thought of Aleksandr’s likely reaction. The improvised scene, the audacity, the surreal breakdown of rehearsal protocol—it would not be tolerated.

Shaking off the residual haze, Zlata rose to her feet. Her slippers whispered across the polished floor as she made her way toward the next portion of the stage, her movements precise, rehearsed, ready to continue the ballet. Yet the memory of the Seven Stars, and the uncanny voice clung to her, a secret layer of the performance she could not fathom, a hidden reality folded inside the theatre of the ballet itself.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.24 THE DARK ONE'S FREQUENCY

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Dark One's Frequency

Zlata Karnaeva A rising star in Zinovi Theatre’s ballet company, currently grappling with a series of inexplicable physical and emotional disturbances. She is the unwitting "variable" whose internal biological rhythm has synchronized with a distant cosmic anomaly.

Mr. Pereversev The Astrophysicist. A methodical observer at the Citadel who tracks the gravitational and biological frequencies of the residents of Aksinya. He acts as a clinical guardian, using mathematics to identify systemic threats that others cannot perceive.

The Unidentified Entity A jagged, parasitic presence detected only as a distortion in the bio-field. It is a "ghost" in the data, grafting itself onto Zlata’s frequency with the intent to intercept her connection to the anomaly and threatens to overwrite her existence.

--

Mr. Pereversev looked up from his ledger as Zlata entered his office, her leopard-print handbag clutched close. She hesitated at the threshold before speaking. 

“Sorry, I was told you could help me,” she said. She drew a jagged shard of mirror from her handbag—its edges catching the lamplight and scattering ribbons of brightness across the dark walls. “But I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing up here.”

Mr. Pereversev gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit, please.”

She obeyed, perching lightly, the mirror fragment resting on her knees. For a moment she seemed afraid to look at it.

“Kind evening, Zlata,” he said, closing his ledger. His tone was calm but not indifferent. “You’ve brought reflection,” he said lightly, indicating to the mirror fragment in her hand. 

She glanced up. “You’re astrophysicist, aren’t you?” She asked. “Why would you be helping me?”

He folded his hands. “Science and healing aren’t so far apart. Both are concerned with gravity—what pulls us, and what we cannot escape.”

Her brow furrowed. “That sounds poetic for man who counts stars.”

He smiled faintly. “Poetry and physics are both languages for what refuses to explain itself.”

He reached under his desk and pressed a recessed button. A soft mechanical click followed, and the heavy metal door behind Zlata sealed completely. The air changed texture—denser, as though all outside sound had been folded away.

“Zlata, I need to tell you something before we begin. There is phenomenon I have been studying—anomaly known as TASYA 282. It is black hole that materialized in Puchkov solar system, Aksinya’s destination, but not like any I’ve seen before. This black hole appeared without origin—no progenitor star, no remnants of collapse, no mathematical precedent. It simply was. And ever since, it pulses. Slowly, rhythmically, as though something inside it remembers concept of heartbeat.”

Zlata blinked, recalling the segment on the Volya news broadcast. She had watched it on a television set at Starikov Bar. The man who sat before her, Mr. Pereversev, had discussed this mysterious black hole with the host, Darya Vassilyevna, on the program. “And what does that have to do with me?” Zlata asked him.

Mr. Pereversev studied her. “Every resident of Aksinya,” he said quietly, “carries harmonization seed near heart. Filament of bio-circuitry. It stabilizes gravity within our bodies—keeps us from drifting into air each time district plates shift rotation around Citadel. Of course, each district has its own gravity generators, but this implant each of us has, ensures we ourselves remain grounded wherever we are in Great City as it traverses through space.”

He glanced at her. “This implant also listens. To us. To each of our cells’ despair or joy. It records them as frequencies.”

She stared at him incredulously. “You mean… we’re being watched?”

“Observed,” he corrected. “Just as physician observes pulse. Citadel does not judge; it measures. That is its mercy, and its cruelty.”

He touched a console inset into the wall behind him, and a soft vibration rolled through the room. Above his desk, a holographic constellation flared to life—hundreds of threads of light pulsing in slow sequence, like a living nervous system suspended in air. Each point shimmered, shifted color, and then dimmed again, as though taking turns breathing.

“Some time ago,” he continued, “pattern of black hole became clearer. Interval began to mirror biological rhythm—one that matched micro-fluctuations of human heartbeat. I cross-checked its signal against every telemetry feed available: medical satellites within Aksinya, atmospheric bio-sensors, neural scans from Citadel’s Collective Vital Field.” 

“I compiled this data and built simulator you see before you. It is neural-field map where each citizen’s data is rendered as shifting constellations of light. It took some time, but I noticed signature repeated itself in only one instance—yours. Your constellation didn’t stay within your baseline coordinates; it extended beyond Aksinya, curving toward my simulation’s edge where TASYA 282 is represented. It is as if your consciousness leaves gravitational fingerprint that black hole recognizes.”

He gestured to the central point, where a brighter filament burned with a slow, deep rhythm—two pulses, pause, two again. As it beat, another light—fainter, distant, beyond the model’s horizon—answered in perfect sync.

“This,” he said, “is your record.”

Zlata looked closer at the hologram in disbelief. “Mine?”

“Your harmonization seed began fluctuating some time ago; around time you accepted leading role in your ballet. At first, I assumed it was stress—artists often register higher emotional gravities during times of performance. But then…” He tapped the hologram to zoom in. The projection magnified, showing the two synchronized pulses, one in the Citadel where Zlata currently was, and one far beyond, “…TASYA 282 began to echo you.”

The breath caught in her throat. “Echo?”

“When you dream, it brightens. When you perform, its gravitational spin shifts. Even your smallest emotional deviations correspond to measurable waves in its accretion field.”

He paused, letting her watch the light of the hologram flutter in synchronicity with her heartbeat. She watched the two lights in the hologram flicker—the one where her light was located within Aksinya and the one far off the side of the hologram. Their rhythm was unmistakable, a duet without distance.

“So, you found me through this?” she asked.

He inclined his head. “Through mathematics. Citadel’s biofield archives cross-reference millions of signatures each hour. Only yours completed my equation. You are variable cosmos answered.”

Zlata wrapped her arms around herself, the movement reflexive, as though she were trying to hide her pulse from the room. “You’re saying this—black hole—breathes with me?”

“I am saying,” he replied evenly, “that black hole listens when you do. When you are calm, it dims. When you are agitated, it flares. It behaves less like space object and more like sentient being.”

 “And you think I caused it?”

“Universe has ways of reflecting fractures. We do not yet understand this mechanism—only that whatever lives inside that void knows your name in language of rhythm. Your neurological pattern, your circadian cycles. Every dream, every surge of adrenaline, every time you dance or cry, there is echo across spacetime.”

“So, you brought me here to… study me?”

“To listen,” he said. “And… to warn. Because signal this pure does not go unnoticed.”

He adjusted a dial, and the holographic map shimmered. “Zlata,” he began gravely, gesturing toward the luminous threads of her own pulse. “There is secondary resonance. Jagged, parasitic pulse that has grafted itself onto edge of your frequency.”

He pointed to a tear in the light—a shivering gray void that clung to her gold filament like a burr. It twitched every time her own light flared.

“I cannot map its coordinates because it is not part of Citadel’s intended harmony. It is misalignment that should not exist. It means there is person—or perhaps entity—within Aksinya who has recognized this connection you have with black hole. It appears they are attempting to use your connection to this anomaly as bridge. They want to reach TASYA 282, and they intend to do so by riding frequencies of your rhythm.”

He pressed the button on the wall behind him and the holographic projection faded, its constellations folding inward like a closing flower. Zlata’s eyes stayed fixed on the place where her light had burned in tandem with the unseen star. The room felt suddenly cold.

“Because I cannot map it, my sensors see only ghost—flicker of interference. I see that distortion, but I cannot ascertain who or what it is. I only know that it is closing in on you, waiting for moment your ballet performance reaches its peak to take your place.”

He leaned closer across the desk, his eyes reflecting the dim glow of the lamp. “I brought you here because I believe you can identify this interference. I need your help to find out who is stalking your signal, Zlata. We must stop this person, or being, before they overwrite your existence entirely.”

A cold shiver suddenly traced down Zlata’s spine. In the silence, a dusty memory surfaced—the cryptic warning her Landlord had once whispered to her:

"...Dark One is born—Dark One is born and follows Little Star."

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.23 THE ASTROPHYSICIST

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Astrophysicist

Zlata Karnaeva A dancer for the new production of Silence of the Crystal Star ballet, currently navigating a world of neon-lit fog and high-stakes performance. Marked by the physical toll of her environment, she seeks out the Citadel’s upper reaches after receiving a cryptic warning about the trouble following her.

Mr. Pereversev The Astrophysicist. A gaunt and exhausted scientist residing in the pristine heights of the Citadel. Behind his star charts and ledgers lies a complex nature connected to the cosmic rhythms of the universe.

Mikhail A wealthy patron of the arts and influential owner within the Pleasure District. A man of smooth words and deep connections, he moves through the backstreets of the district as a silent facilitator.

The Cosmic Ballerinas Guardians of the Void. Ethereal, masked figures who perform devotional rites in front of a churning heart of nebula. They move in perfect synchronization, guiding traveling souls through the airless dark of the cosmos.

--

The dark stage shimmered like the inside of a dream, infinite and airless. The Left and Right Cosmic Ballerinas stood beneath a vault of warped starlight, the orb behind them bending and breathing as if alive. The Left Ballerina held first position, motionless.

The Right Ballerina moved en pointe, their feet tracing perfect crescents across the black floor. In each hand, they carried a slender staff crowned with a small, flickering flame. As they turned, the light cut through the void, painting quicksilver shadows across their space rock mask. The movement was precise, devotional—a rite performed for something unseen.

Their shadows stretched and coiled as the tempo of the cosmos quickened. The orb of stars rippled violently, its edges smearing into spirals. Then, in one fluid stroke, both ballerinas froze. Their outlines blurred, dissolving into the dark—their light consumed by the swirling void.

Out of the distortion, the image of the Premier Ballerina emerged—radiant, weightless, suspended within the churning heart of the nebula. For a moment, the Premier Ballerina hovered between form and formlessness. Then the Premier Ballerina vanished, as if pulled inward by an unseen current.

The Left and Right Ballerinas reappeared in opposite corners of their space, facing each other. They began to move in slow synchronization, arms lifting like wings, guiding their Premier counterpart across the dark sea—as if leading its soul to the next realm.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

The Premier Cosmic Ballerina emerged elsewhere—within a room both mundane and dreamlike, an office drowned in shadow. Rows of star charts and old instruments lined the walls. 

The Premier Cosmic Ballerina sank into a chair behind a desk, the bells at their waist now emitting a faint, spectral clatter. Upon the desk rested a telephone, a ledger, and a small lamp. On the corner of the desk sat a curious object—a luminous pendulum that comprised of two crystal spheres hovering a finger’s width above a bronze base, suspended by light rather than metal. A pale thread of illumination stretched between them, flickering like a heartbeat.

The Premier Cosmic Ballerina transfigured into Mr. Pereversev, Aksinya’s pale astrophysicist. He switched on the lamplight; the glow revealing his gaunt face, its planes sharpened by exhaustion and thought. He bent over the open ledger, the faint hum of the instruments lining the walls underscoring the silence, as the lamplight trembled over his hollow cheeks.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Sometime in the future, the Pleasure District on Plate 01 shimmered like a fever dream—its corridors of neon fog and perfumed steam murmuring with laughter, music, and the slow throb of machinery. Zlata followed Mikhail through its labyrinthine backstreets, her pulse keeping rhythm with the muffled beat that leaked from a nightclub’s corrugated walls. He was the club owner she had met during the gala—a man of smooth words—one of the wealthy patrons of the arts, as well as her sponsor in the new production she starred in.

He guided her to a narrow alley behind the nightclub. The air there was thick, humming with unseen machinery. Zlata clutched her small leopard-print handbag like a treasure, her fingers, which protruded from black spike-knuckled gloves, were pale against the fabric of her handbag. She wore a black mesh bodysuit beneath a longline shirt of cotton and wool twill—black, patterned with faint champagne-pink florals, cinched at the waist by a padded belt. Her boots gleamed with studs; pearls and charms trembled at her wrists; her leather gloves bristled with the small spikes. The ensemble was defense as much as decoration, but it did little to conceal bruises that were blossoming across her face.

“Do you know Mr. Pereversev?” Mikhail asked, his voice almost lost to the music on the other side of the wall.

Zlata blinked, trying to recall the name. “Yes. Isn’t he astrophysicist?” she said, remembering a fragment of a Volya broadcast she had seen at the Starikov Bar so long ago.

Mikhail nodded toward the adjoining building, where a rusted fire escape coiled like a wounded serpent up the side. “You’re in trouble,” he said softly. “Go see him. He can help.” He pointed toward the highest landing. “Last door on right.”

Then he turned and vanished into the electric murmur of the frozen alley.

Zlata began her ascent. Each step groaned beneath her as she climbed the narrow iron stairway, the Pleasure District’s glow spreading beneath her like a feverish carnival—neon pinks and cobalt blues flickering across her pale face. The laughter, the shouts, the grinding pulse of the Pleasure District grew fainter with each level until only the wind remained, whispering through the metal rails.

At the top, she found an open window breathing stale air from within. She climbed through and found herself in a dim corridor, its ceiling lights flickering in arthritic intervals. Her boots struck the floor with a dull echo. Shapes lay scattered along the hallway—figures, sleeping or unconscious, their limbs slack, their breathing shallow. She stepped carefully around them.

At the end of the hall stood a lone elevator door, its glass panel etched in Russian Cyrillic: TO MR. PEREVERSEV—ASTROPHYSICIST. The words glowed faintly, absurdly dignified in this decrepit place. She hesitated, wondering why access to an esteemed Citadel scientist would possibly be in such a ruin. Then she pressed the button.

The glass door slid open with a sigh, revealing a small pod of transparent panels and humming mechanisms. Zlata stepped inside. As soon as she did, the outer door sealed, and the glass and steel pod began its quiet ascent through the vertical dark tunnel above.

Upward it rose—through the choking grime of the elevator shaft—until it broke through into the pallid artificial snowy sky of the district’s plate. Through the glass, Zlata saw hover vehicles gliding like insects of light, the train coiling through the air in loops of neon mist nearby. The elevator pod turned of its own accord, navigating elegantly through the flying traffic toward the vast rotating cylinder of the Citadel above.

As she drew closer, the metallic iris of a docking gate dilated open above her. The elevator pod adjusted its speed, aligning itself perfectly with the Citadel’s slow spin, and slid inward with grace.

The elevator shaft within the Citadel swallowed her in darkness until it reached its destination. Then came the faint hiss of air pressure, and the glass doors parted in tandem—revealing a corridor of pristine white. The silence was absolute.

A sign on the opposite wall denoted MR. PEREVERSEV’S OFFICE →.

Zlata held her handbag tight, the way one might cradle a secret. Her boots clicked softly on the polished floor as she made her way down the hallway to a single metal door at its end. Before she could knock, the door slid open and she tentatively stepped inside.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.22 RIVALRY IGNITES

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For Rivalry Ignites

The Ethereal Boy A 27-year old premier danseur living a life of "quiet compromises." While he maintains the social façade of a devoted husband to his wife, Marisha, his heart remains tethered to a man among the stars.

Dominika "Nika" Sokolova A dancer pushed to a violent breaking point. Bleeding and brandishing a shard of mirror, she represents the raw, jagged underside of the ballet world—where years of discipline can instantly dissolve into a storm of "fury and despair" when ambition is thwarted.

Alina Tzirkova A seasoned Company choreographer who possesses a weary, intuitive understanding of the ballet world’s emotional toll. She offers a silent, grounding presence as she helps clear the wreckage left behind by ambition.

Maksim "Maks" The cosmonaut hero appearing as a spectral vision within the fortune teller’s orb. Standing on a floodlit launch pad with "calm determination," he remains the Ethereal Boy’s distant North Star.

--

1960s Soviet Russia

The Ethereal Boy gathered his things, carefully folding his rehearsal jacket and slipping on his coat. His dressing room was a sanctuary of high ceilings and heavy velvet, a private ground-floor privilege reserved for the Premier Danseurs.

Marisha would be waiting—his wife, the carefully arranged presence in his life that society expected, the one his family demanded. 

A dull ache settled in his chest, a mixture of obligation and guilt. Each evening with her was a reminder of the life he had never chosen, of the quiet compromises that bound him to appearances. And yet, despite the predictability of their shared routine, despite the comforting familiarity of their apartment, his heart longed elsewhere.

He thought of Maksim, far away now on his space missions, and a fresh pang of yearning tightened around him. He wanted to hear news of him, to feel even a flicker of that tethered presence across the stars—but with the cosmonaut’s journey underway, glimpses would likely be weeks apart. He swallowed the ache, tucking it away behind the mechanical precision of packing, and focused on the small, orderly tasks before him: checking his ballet shoes, straightening his trousers, making sure nothing was left behind in his dressing room, and stepped out into the hall. Outside his heavy oak door, the "Star Corridor" was silent, carpeted to muffle the footfalls of the elite.

As he reached the T-junction where the plush carpet of the Premier wing gave way to the cold, echoing stone of the Soloist corridor, a muffled sound of sobbing cut through the usual clatter of folding chairs. Then, a sharp, metallic crash erupted from Room 12. He froze mid-step.

Rushing toward the sound, he reached the dressing room and paused at the threshold. This room was tighter, designed for two. On the left, Ksenia’s side of the long vanity was a shrine to success: a fresh bouquet of roses, a neatly stacked pile of fan mail, imported French perfumes, high-end Soviet cosmetics, and a pristine mirror.

On the right—Dominika’s side—was a wreckage.

Her vanity mirror was fractured, jagged cracks spider-webbing across the glass. Amid the shards sat Dominika, curled on the floor, her hands trembling. One hand glinted crimson in the dim light, blood smearing the delicate fabric of her sleeve.

“Nika!” he called gently, stepping closer. “Are you hurt? Let me help—”

In a sudden, sharp movement, she seized a shard of glass from the floor and lifted it in his direction. He froze, hands raised instinctively.

“Stay away from me!” she hissed, her voice brittle and raw. “Stay the hell away!”

The Ethereal Boy took a cautious step back, his heartbeat hammering.

“That… that parasite,” Dominika spat, her voice a jagged rasp that seemed to catch on the glass shards. “Ksenia—she didn't earn it. She stole it! It was written for me! Mine! I have bled for this stage, and she… she just smiles at Director and walks away with my life!”

Her words dissolved into a strangled sob, her voice quivering with a palpable fury. The Ethereal Boy stood frozen, the heavy scent of Krasnaya Moskva perfume in the air clashed sickeningly with the metallic tang of Dominika’s blood.

Dominika shook her head violently, as if trying to shed the very skin of a First Soloist. “To hell with them,” she hissed. “To hell with her, and to hell with that spineless coward in Director’s chair. I am ghost in this building! Every time... every single time, I am shadow she walks on!”

Her fingers tightened around the glass shard, knuckles white against the crimson smearing her palm. “They think they can bury me here,” she muttered, a dark, desperate resolve flickering in her eyes. “Let them try.”

Without another word, she yanked her bag toward her, gathering her scattered belongings with trembling arms. Sobs wracked her body as she stumbled toward the exit, the glass shard still in her bloody hand. 

The Ethereal Boy’s mind raced—he wanted to reach for her, to stop her, to do something—but the jagged edge of the glass she held firmly and the storm of her emotions made him hesitate.

He stood there for a long moment, listening to the echo of her footsteps fading down the hall. The broken vanity mirror glinted in the overhead light, shards catching the faint glow of the dressing room, reflecting both the violence of the moment and the fragility of ambition. 

A quiet ache settled in his chest, not for himself but for the way desire and disappointment could so completely consume someone—a reminder of how easily a single role could mean everything, and how cruel the world of ballet could be behind its polished, glittering surface.

With a heavy sigh, he knelt, his fingers hovering over the wreckage, the shards clicking softly as he gathered them into a piece of discarded newspaper. His movements were cautious, as if the glass held the same jagged volatility as Dominika’s temper.

"Careful," a voice drifted down. Alina Tzirkova, one of the Company's choreographers, had stopped in the hall. She walked into the dressing room and knelt opposite him, her face a mask of practiced neutrality that only those who had survived decades in this building could maintain.

"She has fire," Alina murmured, her voice like dry parchment. "But fire without hearth only burns house down."

The Ethereal Boy looked at the other side of the vanity. There, sitting atop a stack of Ksenia’s clean makeup towels, was a stiff, cream-colored envelope. It was embossed with the gold seal of the Ministry of Culture, unopened but its contents already screaming through the paper.

"Ksenia received her Prikaz this morning," Alina said, noticing the Ethereal Boy's gaze. "First Soloist to Prima Ballerina. Director signed it at ten; it was on desk by noon."

"And Dominika saw it," he replied, the weight of Dominika’s rage finally making sense.

"Dominika has been First Soloist for six years," Alina said, picking up a particularly large shard that reflected the dim overhead bulb. "In this theatre, if you stay in one place for that long, you're sinking."

She looked at the Ethereal Boy, her eyes softening. "You were lucky. Your promotion came like summer storm. For other dancers, it is slow drought."

When they were finished cleaning, the Ethereal Boy made his way back down the corridor. The hallway felt colder now, empty and haunted. He adjusted his bag over his shoulder, his thoughts flickering once more to Maksim, to the faraway stars, and to the fragile, human dramas unfolding here on Earth. He wondered if the vacuum of space was any more unforgiving than the silence of a dressing room where only one person is allowed to succeed.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Abandoned Fortune Teller's Tent, Somewhere in Russia

The Ethereal Boy was crying in the fortune teller’s tent as he watched all of these memories unfold within the pulsing orb. Then, the shifting light crystallized into a sharp, static image: a silver Zvezda watch—his own—gleaming in perfect clarity. 

He looked down at his wrist, his tears merging with the snowflakes that were melting upon his coat. And then—the familiar showed within the orb. That man he once knew, Maksim, standing at a Russian space agency, cosmonaut suit in pristine condition, helmet cradled under his arm. 

Night enveloped the launch pad, yet its floodlights revealed a calm determination etched across Maksim’s face. The Ethereal Boy’s chest tightened; there was a subtle shadow there, a foreboding he could not ignore.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.21 THE STAR SYSTEM

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Star System

The Ethereal Boy A principal dancer of the Company. While he serves as the steady, supporting partner to the auditioning first soloists, he is consumed by a "quiet ache" of longing—wishing to shed his rigid role and inhabit the delicate, expressive freedom of the feminine solo he is forced to observe.

Dominika "Nika" Sokolova The current hopeful for the co-lead role (and promotion to prima ballerina), she is a vessel of technical perfection and practiced grace. Under the predatory gaze of the directors, she executes seamless spins and arcs.

Kazimir Dainov The Company’s sharp and unyielding Artistic Director. He is the personification of Soviet discipline, watching the dancers with "unflinching eyes" that value mechanical precision and strength over the emotional turmoil simmering beneath the surface of his performers.

Ksenia Zelyaeva The confident and radiant rival whose audition the day prior set the standard for the role. Though she is not currently on the floor, her "commanding attention" remains the invisible benchmark Dominika must overcome to claim her place beside the Ethereal Boy.

--

1960s Soviet Russia

The Ethereal Boy stood at the edge of the polished studio, high windows letting in the pale autumn light, dust particles drifting above the worn oak floors. As one of the Company’s premier danseurs, his presence commanded attention even when he was still. Today, however, he was not performing his own part—he was observing, participating only as a partner, as the Company determined who would share the lead with him in the upcoming ballet. 

The choice was narrowed down to two first soloists: Dominika Sokolova and Ksenia Zelyaeva. Ksenia had danced alongside the Ethereal Boy the day before, her presence confident, radiant, commanding attention from the directors and ballet masters. 

Now it was Dominika’s turn to demonstrate her worth. Both women were referred to as "Nadezhda baletas", hopes of the Ballet, and as a permanent promotion of status and salary was on the line for both of them, Dominika was under immense pressure; she was one misstep away from either glory or being permanently overshadowed by Ksenia.

At the far side of the studio, Kazimir Dainov, the artistic director, stood with his arms crossed, eyes sharp and unyielding. Every posture, every gesture, every minute shift of weight was scrutinized with uncompromising intensity. Mistakes were noted immediately, often without comment, and no one’s feelings interfered with his judgment. 

On the sidelines, a harpist, violinist, and pianist were poised to provide accompaniment, their instruments held in quiet readiness, waiting to punctuate the dancer’s movements with delicate, exacting flourishes.

Dominika began with the ballet walk, her arms rising and falling with practiced grace. The Ethereal Boy circled her, noting the subtle tensions in her shoulders, the arc of her extended leg, the controlled rise of her chest. Slowly, he guided her into a spin, lightly supporting her waist as she balanced en pointe on one leg, the other leg stretched high behind her. She arched gracefully and paused in his arms, a fleeting tableau of perfect symmetry. Their raised arms met in unison, then she twirled away, only to return, her back brushing against his chest, their gestures flowing as if they shared a single breath.

When Dominika transitioned into her solo, the Ethereal Boy stepped back, observing keenly. She began with the ballet walk, arms crossed against her chest, before leaping delicately, arms sweeping upward and downward in a smooth, deliberate arc. Her spins were endless in appearance, her body coiling and uncoiling with tension and release. She arched into fifth position briefly, extended en épaulé, side-stepped en pointe, and spun again, moving in a seamless, intoxicating loop. Every subtle variation in her posture, every extension of fingers or tilt of the head, carried weight; every movement was evaluated for strength, elegance, and emotional clarity.

The solo was the culmination of her audition—the deciding factor in who would share the lead with him. Each rotation, each extension, each perfect alignment of spine and shoulders mattered. The directors’ gazes were unflinching, tracking her body like predators, noting the mechanical precision alongside the elusive artistry that could not be taught.

And yet, the Ethereal Boy felt a pang of longing, almost painful in its intensity. He imagined himself inhabiting Dominika’s role, his own body moving in those arcs and spins, leaping and landing with the same delicate strength. He envisioned the audience, hushed in expectation, watching him bring the choreography to life, their eyes tracing every perfect line. 

A quiet ache stirred within him—not envy, exactly, but a yearning for freedom, for the chance to inhabit a role that demanded everything he had to give, and yet offered the ultimate expression of his art.

The studio seemed to pulse with the rhythm of Dominika’s movement—the whisper of pointe shoes against wood, the swell of the harp and violin, the precise timing of piano keys marking her rhythm. Every lift, every turn, every suspended moment spoke of the discipline, rigor, and perfection expected of the Company. And yet, beneath the surface, in that fleeting private corner of his mind, the Ethereal Boy imagined himself dancing the solo, inhabiting the role that now unfolded before him, moving with abandon and grace, entirely unbound by expectation.

Each spin, each balance, each gesture brought the knowledge that the choice today would shape the performance, perhaps the season, and the career of the woman who claimed the role. And still, amid the exacting eyes, the crisp rhythm of rehearsal, and the delicate murmur of the accompanying musicians, he felt the private ache of desire—the yearning not only to dance but to live fully in a moment that might otherwise never be his.

[zlatakarnaeva]

AUTUMN IN MOSCOW (DELETED SCENE)

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For Autumn in Moscow

The Ethereal Boy An elite premier danseur returning to the rigid discipline of Moscow. Defined by technical precision and internal fragile longing, he navigates a rigid Soviet existence while concealing his identity as a golubóy and his profound love for an absent cosmonaut.

Maksim "Maks" A broad-shouldered major with soulful obsidian eyes and a commanding physical authority. He is currently on a mission in space, leaving behind a legacy of stolen moments and a silver Zvezda watch.

Marisha (UNSEEN) The Ethereal Boy’s wife, she represents the carefully constructed façade of a traditional Soviet marriage and the domestic expectations that sharpen his sense of guilt and betrayal.

The Translator An intellectual encountered at a clandestine 1960s cultural salon, he is a pedantic conversationalist who drones on about the subversion of abstract art until intimidated by Maksim’s arrival.

--

1960s Soviet Russia

Several weeks had passed since Maksim had left for his space mission, and the train now carried the Ethereal Boy steadily toward Moscow, the rhythmic clatter of wheels over rails a familiar, almost meditative sound. In the mornings since Maksim’s departure, the Ethereal Boy would occasionally visit his dacha alone, wandering through the rooms and lingering in the spaces Maksim had filled. 

It was a quiet ritual, a way to feel Maksim’s presence in the light streaming through the curtains, the subtle scent of his cologne lingering faintly in the air, the stars still gleaming on the wallpaper like tiny silent witnesses. Those moments were fragile, private, and full of longing, and they were the closest he could come to touching Maksim while he was away for an indeterminate time.

Outside the train, the countryside wore the bruised hues of late autumn. Birch trees stood like pale sentinels against fields of frost and amber, and the sharp scent of decaying leaves drifted through the ajar window.

The Ethereal Boy sat against the glass in austere black, his jacket pressed to a sharp, defensive crease. His thumb brushed the brown leather of the Zvezda watch on his wrist. He was acutely aware of its delicate, feminine frame; to the other passengers or his wife, Marisha, it would look like a scandalous misplaced treasure. It was a beautiful, dangerous weight—one more secret to be buried beneath the layers of his duty.

The carriage around him hummed with muted Soviet life. Across the aisle, a man sipped tea from a chipped enamel cup, the steam smelling of metal and wet leaves. A newspaper rustled nearby, its headlines of industry and progress barely registering. The Ethereal Boy thought of his ballet career—the endless rehearsals and the precise discipline that had carved him into a principal dancer. Each plié and pirouette carried the weight of sacrifice, yet accolades only deepened the emptiness he had carried for years.

Like Maksim, he had hoped success and a carefully constructed marriage would buy him acceptance. Instead, every evening with Marisha only sharpened the ache of a life half-lived.

He thought of Maksim now—the months of centrifuge runs and grueling drills leading to that final ascent into the void. Pride and longing tangled in his chest, darkened by an undercurrent of fear.

The Ethereal Boy pressed his forehead against the cool glass. As the rhythmic clack-clack of the tracks pulsed through his skull, his mind drifted back, bypassing the dacha and the stage, landing instead in a smoke-filled apartment in a quiet corner of Moscow...

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

It had been three years ago, at a "cultural salon" hosted by a renowned avant-garde composer. To the authorities, it was a gathering of the intelligentsia; in reality, it was a sanctuary. In 1960s Moscow, where homosexuality was a crime punishable by years of hard labor, rooms like this were the only places where the state-mandated mask could be set aside. Here, protected by thick curtains and the shared silence of golubóy living in the shadows of the law, the rigid posture of the "Soviet Artist" finally began to sag.

The Ethereal Boy remembered standing by a bookshelf talking to a translator, the air heavy with Turkish tobacco and expensive cognac, feeling the weight of the room’s collective secret.

"You see, Pollock is the end of the line. It’s the disintegration of the state through the disintegration of the canvas. Don't you find that...subversive?" The Translator was leaning in far too close, his breath smelling of stale coffee as he droned on. 

The Ethereal Boy shifted, feeling like a pinned butterfly. “I think,” he began softly, his mind already formulating a neutral, safe response, when a new voice cut through the haze.

"I’m so sorry to interrupt."

It was a low, steady vibration that seemed to anchor the air, carrying a crisp, melodic cadence that didn't belong to the soft-handed scholars in the room. The Ethereal Boy looked up, and his heart gave a sharp, defensive kick.

Standing there was a man who seemed to swallow all the light in the room. He was broad-shouldered, filling out a dark, high-collared turtleneck with a terrifying, physical authority. He didn't just stand; he held his position with the rigid, lethal economy of a man accustomed to a uniform. His chin was held at a precise, disciplined angle, and his gaze was so direct it felt like a spotlight. The man’s sheer presence made the Translator instinctively straighten his posture.

The Ethereal Boy’s internal “threat assessment” screamed. This wasn't a bohemian artist or a jittery academic. This was a man of the State. He scanned the stranger with the efficiency of a survivor, looking for the tell-tale signs of a professional provocateur: the scratchy, shapeless wool of a government-issue coat or the stale, heavy reek of cheap makhorka tobacco.

He found neither. The turtleneck the man wore was a fine, expensive knit, and his scent was a clean, sharp mix of cedar and the cold night air. And yet, the suspicion lingered. Was this a high-level plant? A military officer or a KGB major sent to infiltrate the golubóy elite?

Then, his gaze traveled upward, colliding with the man’s eyes—soulful, obsidian depths. Locked onto his with a focused intent, they held a mirror to his own soul. For a fleeting second, the military mask seemed to flicker, revealing the same quiet exhaustion, the same bone-deep weariness of a life lived entirely in the shadows.

"But I believe I’m owed a conversation about the... subversion... of new orbital trajectories," the man continued. "And I’ve been waiting quite a while for my turn."

The Translator stammered, intimidated by the stranger’s sheer presence, and vanished into the crowd, mumbling something about a fresh drink.

The Ethereal Boy kept his face a mask of polite indifference, though his pulse was drumming against his ribs. “Orbital trajectories? That’s a very specific topic, even for a salon.”

The Ethereal Boy was testing him. If this was an officer on a mission, he would likely lean into the "hero of the Soviet Union" persona, using technical jargon to assert dominance. Instead, the stranger let out a short, huffed laugh that crinkled the bridge of his nose, momentarily shattering the porcelain perfection of his disciplined stance.

The man leaned one shoulder against the bookshelf, boxing the Ethereal Boy into a small, private world. He was close—dangerously so—but he stayed just far enough away to leave an escape route. It wasn't the stance of an agents provocateur; it was the stance of a suitor.

“I’ll be honest with you—I don’t know the first thing about them,” the man admitted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I just thought it sounded more impressive than ‘I’ve been standing by the balcony for twenty minutes trying to figure out how to approach you.’”

The Ethereal Boy felt a flush creep up his neck, a heat that had nothing to do with the cognac. In a city built on lies, such a clumsy, honest admission was a radical act. It was a tactical error for a spy, but a profound gesture for a man.

“Well,” the Ethereal Boy murmured, finally allowing his shoulders to relax just a fraction. "It just so happens I was waiting for better conversation to find me."

"Is that right?" The man’s hand came up, his fingers grazing the mahogany shelf just inches from the Ethereal Boy's arm. "And how is the search going so far?"

"Improving," the Ethereal Boy murmured, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his guard. "Though the bar was set quite low by that Pollock enthusiast."

The stranger grinned, a flash of white teeth against his dark beard. It was a devastatingly handsome look. "In that case, I suppose I have a lot to live up to. I’m Maksim."

The Ethereal Boy hesitated. Names were dangerous here. It was a sentence of hard labor if spoken to the wrong ear. But the way Maksim said it—offering his own name first, handing over the ultimate piece of evidence without being asked—was a leap of faith that made the Ethereal Boy want to be just as brave. If this was a trap by the state, it was a masterpiece. If it wasn't, it was the first real thing he had heard in years.

The Ethereal Boy introduced himself as well, the syllables feeling heavy and precious in the smoke-filled air.

Maksim repeated the Ethereal Boy's name slowly, as if he were memorizing a secret he intended to keep. "A strong name. Very proper," he said, his gaze sweeping over the Ethereal Boy’s face with a quiet sort of wonder. He tilted his head, his thumb ghosting over the wood near the Ethereal Boy's sleeve. "You certainly have way of pulling everything into your orbit."

Maksim’s smile softened into something steadier, something real. He stepped back, gesturing toward the hallway beyond the apartment with a mock-formal tilt of his head. He was giving the Ethereal Boy the choice to stay in the "safety" of the crowd or follow him into the unknown. “I think the air is too thin in here, don’t you? Let’s find somewhere the stars are actually visible.”

The Ethereal Boy thought about how balanced their "dance" with the conversation was. While Maksim’s presence was undeniable, filling the narrow space between the shelves, he didn't crowd the Ethereal Boy; he left him air to breathe and the silence necessary to respond.

The Ethereal Boy realized then that Maksim wasn't acting like a man making an arrest; he was acting like a man risking his life for a connection. Meeting Maksim's steady gaze, he offered a small nod in response, choosing the risk.

The air shifted as they moved together, their shoulders nearly brushing. As they reached the door, leaving the smoke and the suffocating "safety" of the apartment behind, the Ethereal Boy felt a strange, terrifying lightness. Behind them, the piano reached a jagged, discordant finish, its final notes swallowed by the closing apartment door.

Ahead of them, there was no more bureaucracy, no more "Soviet Artist," and no more masks. There was only the sudden, breathless rush of the Moscow night, and the two of them, stepping out into the silent, falling white.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

The train jolted, pulling the Ethereal Boy back to the present. His fingers lingered over the brown leather strap of the Zvezda watch, feeling its smooth texture, breathing in the faint scent of worn leather that carried Maksim’s presence like a secret tether.

He uttered a quiet prayer. The words hung in the air, mingling with the soft clatter of teacups, the rustle of newspapers, and the muted murmur of fellow passengers. A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching the pale autumn light before tracing the curve of his jaw. Outside, the world blurred past: amber leaves stirred in the breeze, frost-lined fields glimmered faintly, and the long shadows of birch trees stretched like silent witnesses across the land.

He leaned back against the seat, inhaling the mingled scents of damp leaves, wool coats, and faint smoke from a nearby stove car. The warmth of the brown leather strap pressed against his skin, grounding him, and the silver face of the watch gleamed in the soft morning light. The prayer lingered on his lips, a fragile tether reaching across the rolling countryside, the autumn fields, and all the way to the stars where Maksim was journeying, carrying with him the quiet devotion of a love lived in secret.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.20 ZVEZDA

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For Zvezda

The Ethereal Boy A 27-year-old premier danseur whose grace on the stage is matched only by the delicate precision of his private life. Slender, blue/grey-eyed, and draped in cashmere, he exists in a state of "suspended elegance," caught between the soaring height of his artistic success and the crushing weight of a double life.

Maksim “Maks” A poised and commanding Soviet cosmonaut on the verge of making history. While he radiates the confidence of a national hero, he is a man divided. Bound by a marriage he maintains to satisfy the state and his family, he views his impending journey into the stars as his only hope for leverage—believing that if he can become a hero for the USSR, he might finally earn the right to stop pretending and live openly with the man he loves.

--

1960s Soviet Russia

A dacha sat in the quiet heart of the countryside—a modest wooden house with a red tin roof that glowed under the waning Autumn sun. To the Union of Creative Workers, this "professional allotment" was a reward for the Ethereal Boy’s service to Soviet culture; to him, it was the only place where the walls didn’t have ears.

Outside, the birch trees stood like pale sentinels, their remaining gold leaves whispering in the wind. Inside, the Ethereal Boy reclined on a mustard-yellow velvet sofa, the cushions worn but comforting. He was twenty-seven, slender and poised, with blue-grey eyes that caught the sunlight in quick flashes, reflecting it like glass. His cream cashmere sweater was soft, grey wool trousers crisp at the crease, and his brown leather shoes polished to a quiet gleam.

The room smelled of woodsmoke, the floral tang of Krasnaya Moskva perfume, and the brassy steam of a small samovar. On the windowsill, a transistor radio spilled out the languid baritone of Muslim Magomayev, his voice drifting through the haze of a half-empty ashtray.

Across the Ethereal Boy’s lap lay a fashion magazine that was forbidden by the state. The pages were alive with sharp tailored suits, pencil skirts, and gleaming leather shoes. His fingers traced a photograph of a sharply dressed model, as if studying some ritual of style he longed to embody.

The soft hum of the record on the radio was interrupted by a distant rumble. Tires crunched over gravel, the sound interrupting the stillness of the countryside. The Ethereal Boy froze, the magazine slipping slightly from his lap.

He rose and moved to the window, parting the curtain with a careful hand. Outside, a turquoise Volga GAZ-21 coasted to a stop beneath the birch trees. Maksim stepped out of the vehicle, his movements measured and poised. He wore a brown cotton-blend jacket over a silk shirt in a warm, earthy tone, trousers to match, and polished leather boots that gleamed faintly in the sun. Even standing still, he seemed to command the space around him.

The Ethereal Boy’s breath caught. A smile brightened his face and the magazine hit the floor. The radio’s soft static and Magomayev’s voice followed him like a faint echo.

He flung open the front door, letting in the crisp, fragrant air from outside. Gravel crunching underfoot. “Maks!”

He threw himself into Maksim’s arms, legs wrapping around his waist, face buried in the crook of a bearded neck that smelled of cedar and cold high-altitude air. Maksim caught him without effort, a low chuckle vibrating against the Ethereal Boy’s chest. They stayed there for a moment, the world narrowing to the heat between them, before they both retreated inside to the safety of the dacha.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

They settled onto the sofa, the radio’s soft hum mingled with the late afternoon light. Golden streaks spilled through the thick curtains, illuminating dust motes that spun lazily, glinting like tiny stars.

The Ethereal Boy rested against the arm of the couch, legs draped over Maksim’s lap, while Maksim’s fingers traced gentle, idle patterns along the Ethereal Boy's calves with a familiarity that spoke of long nights and quiet afternoons spent together.

“You’re ridiculously comfortable,” Maksim teased, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do you always take over sofas like this?”

The Ethereal Boy smirked, nudging Maksim playfully with his foot. “Only when I’m with you,” he replied, voice soft, tinged with affection. “Otherwise, I respect my furniture.”

Maksim chuckled and leaned forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from the Ethereal Boy’s forehead. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll let you continue your…” suddenly, his hands exploded into motion against the Ethereal Boy’s midsection. “Domination of couch!”

He ignored the Ethereal Boy’s yelp of laughter—a bright, breathless sound that made the air feel warmer, lighter—as his fingers traced a frantic, tickling path. As the laughter finally ebbed into a shared, quiet smile, Maksim’s expression softened. A flicker of something serious passed over his face, and he leaned in until his voice was a low murmur.

“I have something for you,” he said quietly.

The playful tension in the room melted into curiosity as Maksim reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small, midnight-blue velvet pouch. With a practiced flick of the drawstrings, he tipped a silver Zvezda watch, bound in a supple brown leather strap, into his palm.

“It’s beautiful,” the Ethereal Boy murmured, offering his wrist for Maksim to fasten it.

“I thought it would suit my zvyozdochka,” Maksim said softly, a teasing lilt in his voice. The nickname, meaning "Little Star," was a term of endearment usually reserved for kids, yet in the private air between them, it became a playful tribute to the twenty-seven year old Ethereal Boy’s slight frame to Maksim's larger, protective presence.

“My grandmother wore this when she navigated bombers through the night; she told me it was the only thing that could find the way home when the stars went dark.”

Maksim fastened the strap. “I wanted you to have this so you have something synchronized with me." His calloused thumbs lingered on the Ethereal Boy’s wrist, pressing the watch's silver casing against the steady rhythm of his pulse. "If the silence becomes too loud, or if the path back to me seems to vanish, just listen to the ticking. As long as these hands move, we are occupying the same moment, no matter how many miles—or worlds—sit between us. It found my grandmother's way home through the fire; it will find our way back to one another, even if the dark takes the stars first.”

The Ethereal Boy looked up, a frown of confusion twitching at his brow. Maksim took a breath, looking toward the windows as if checking for the shadows of the KGB among the birches.

“You know the 'special assignment' I’ve been training for? The isolation chambers, the centrifuge at Star City... the endlessly revised flight schedules? The Chief Designer has made his selection.” He paused. “The state has given me my orders, zvyozdochka. Tomorrow around midnight, I leave the atmosphere. I am to be the pilot of the Product!”

The Ethereal Boy’s eyes widened. Having been with Maksim for a while, he had picked up on some of the Cosmonaut Corps' jargon. In the world of the Space Program, "The Product" was the secret designation for the Vostok prototypes. The metallic, pressurized secret that would either carry Maksim to the stars or become his coffin. “I… I knew this day would come,” the Ethereal Boy said, forcing a smile that felt brittle, but he pushed his fears aside. “Congratulations, Maks. You’ll be a Hero of the Union!”

He leaned forward, pressing a fervent kiss to Maksim’s lips, lingering just long enough for warmth to spread between them. Their foreheads met, and they stayed like that for a moment, sharing a quiet, private celebration.

Then, as the glow of excitement faded, a shadow crossed the Ethereal Boy’s expression. He pulled back slightly, his thoughts drifting elsewhere—to Marisha, his own wife. He imagined her sitting alone in their apartment back in Moscow, expecting a normal evening with him.

The Ethereal Boy had once told her the dacha was a "closed creative retreat" belonging to the Union—a place where spouses were strictly forbidden so that artists could focus on their socialist labor without distraction. It was a lie built on the very bureaucracy that rewarded him, and it worked because, in their world, the state’s rules were never questioned. But the weight of that deception, and the knowledge that she was waiting for a husband who was currently in the arms of another man, made the guilt twist through him, sharp and undeniable.

“…Does your wife know?” The Ethereal Boy asked Maksim quietly, his voice almost swallowed by the warm silence.

Maksim flinched, caught off guard. “No,” he admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “I just left Star City. I wanted to tell you first.” He studied the Ethereal Boy’s face and saw the shadow of guilt mirrored there, and his heart ached for him. “I’ll tell her tonight, of course. I may be away for while, and she deserves to hear it from me.”

The Ethereal Boy nodded slowly, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the silver Zvezda watch. The ticking suddenly felt like a countdown. “I hate that we have to live as monuments,” he said, his voice low and heavy with a sudden, jagged grief. “Hiding... marrying women just to provide 'perfect' Soviet portrait. It’s not right. Not for us, and especially not for our wives.”

The Ethereal Boy thought of Marisha’s gentle voice, the way she smiled when she thought he was hers entirely, and the betrayal cut through him like a physical blade. He wasn't just lying to a wife; he was lying to a woman who saw him as the pinnacle of a Soviet man. “I... I feel like I’m failing everyone,” he admitted, his throat tight. “My parents, the Company... audiences who cheer for me.”

Maksim reached out, his hand—strong, calloused from the controls of aircraft—lifting under the Ethereal Boy’s chin. He guided his face up until their gazes locked. The golden light caught the tear slipping down the Ethereal Boy’s cheek, shimmering like a stray nebula.

Maksim’s voice was soft, but it carried the hollow resonance of a man who had already been hollowed out by duty. “I know this isn't ideal,” he said, his thumb stroking the Ethereal Boy’s cheek. “But I have plan. I want to make things right. I just...” He faltered, the weight of the Cosmonaut Corps and the expectations of the Russian people pressing into his own shoulders. “...I just want my family to be proud of me. My father, the Party... they look at me and see hero. If I can give them the moon, if I can show them that I’ve succeeded beyond any other man... maybe... maybe they’ll accept who I truly am.”

His voice dropped, becoming a desperate, private prayer. “Maybe if I become legend, they’ll forgive me for being a golubóy. And then... I won’t have to pretend anymore. We can stop waiting for permission to exist.”

The Ethereal Boy searched Maksim’s face, seeing the same anguish reflected there—the impossible hope that greatness could buy them both the right to be human. They weren't just two men in love; they were two state-owned properties trying to steal themselves back.

They lingered in silence, the afternoon light shifting across the room, catching the golden stars on the wallpaper, the gleaming brass of the samovar, the scattered pages of the magazine, and the glint of the Zvezda watch on the Ethereal Boy’s wrist. 

Maksim let his hand rest lightly on the Ethereal Boy’s knee. The Ethereal Boy leaned into him, sharing the warmth, the intimacy, and the quiet understanding between them. Despite the guilt, the secrecy, and the impossible circumstances, there was this—this perfect, suspended moment—where the world narrowed to just the two of them, their shared breath and beating hearts.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.19 THE FORTUNE

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Fortune

Zlata Karnaeva Principal ballerina of the Zinovi Theatre. Her disciplined body anchors her to the physical world, while her mind slips easily into thresholds—mirrors, memories, and ritual. In this scene, she becomes less a dancer and more a conduit, her curiosity opening a passage in time she cannot fully control.

The Ethereal Boy A figure revealed through glass and repetition, appearing no older than twenty-seven. Slender, precise, exquisitely trained. His life unfolds in fragments—rehearsals, travel, solitude—glimpsed through the tunnel of mirrors. He carries longing and grief like a second spine. He is not Zlata’s future, but something bound to her across time.

The Absent Beloved Never seen directly, only felt through the Ethereal Boy’s glances, silences, and sorrow. A gravitational absence around which his life bends. This unseen figure forms the emotional core of the vision—a love already marked by distance, loss, or erasure.

--

The Silence of the Crystal Star ballet continued. But the stage felt different—less a constructed set and more a living, breathing extension of Zlata’s own mind. She moved with the measured grace of a dancer, but it was not the stage that guided her—it was something else, something intimate and immediate. The painted backdrop and props seemed to fade into shadows, and the space around her warped, folding seamlessly into the intimacy of her dressing room. It felt familiar yet strange: the vanity mirror gleamed, catching her eye in the dim light, and she felt, faintly, as though it were breathing, whispering, beckoning her closer.

Her thoughts drifted to the vision she had glimpsed not long before, in the rehearsal hall with the Seven Stars. A man of about twenty-seven years had appeared. “Do you want to know… your fortune?” he had asked, his voice quiet yet insistent. “At midnight, let your hair down and place two small mirrors at angles on either side of large one. Form tunnel of reflections. Put one candle between them… and light it. Then say, ‘My future betrothed, come to me,’ and look into mirror… before you.”

Curiosity, that insistent pulse of wonder and unease, carried Zlata now. She stepped inside the dressing room set and closed the door behind her, the latch clicking like the seal of another world. She dug into her duffel bag, retrieving two small hand mirrors, an old Russian matchbox, and a candle in a simple holder.

She turned off the overhead light. Darkness pressed in around her, and she placed the candle on the vanity. One match struck, a thin flare of orange, then gone; the flickering glow bathed her in uneven shadows, pulling the curves of her face into sharp relief. She set the small mirrors at either side of the candle, angling them until they caught each other’s reflections endlessly, forming a tunnel into infinity.

Her pink-blonde hair fell over her shoulders as she loosened her bun, and she whispered the words she had memorized from that strange vision:

“My future betrothed, come to me.”

At first, there was nothing but her own face staring back. But as she stared, blinking through the wavering candlelight, the surface of the glass rippled, subtly at first, then more insistently. Her reflection began to blur, her conscious mind slipping as her subconscious pulled free, leaving her body seated in the chair but her awareness elsewhere.

The mirror became not a surface, but a threshold. She drifted through it, weightless and silent, no longer a dancer on stage, no longer Zlata in a dressing room. The set around her dissolved into something simultaneously familiar and impossible—a city street in snow, a theater corridor, a train rolling through autumn fields. She could see fragments, brief and bright, of a life she did not know, yet felt intrinsically bound to.

A young man—the same one in her vision—slender and pale, his blue-grey eyes catching the light of a dressing room mirror; he tucked a brown leather strap around his wrist, the silver face of a watch gleaming. He moved with precision, a dancer’s body honed to perfection, rehearsing endless routines, pirouettes, pliés, stretching muscles to their breaking point. Each gesture was meticulous, beautiful, and haunting.

She saw him in fleeting moments: seated by a train window, staring at fields brushed with frost; standing on a stage, the hush of a theater waiting as he balanced perfectly on one foot, arms extended; a candle flickering in a room much like her own, the glow illuminating a tense, lonely expression.

His presence was beyond the grasp of her understanding, yet she felt the weight of longing, grief, and devotion saturating him. She saw glances toward someone unseen, felt the absence of a man whose life intersected tragically with his, a tether of love that stretched across impossible distances.

The tunnel of mirrors seemed to stretch forever, showing her fragments of his days, nights, rehearsals, and quiet moments, as if the glass itself were breathing out his life, piece by piece. She could only watch, powerless, a silent witness to events that were both intensely personal and heartbreakingly unknowable.

And in that space, between the reflection and the reality, the stage and the dressing room, Zlata realized that the fortune she had been shown was no simple trick: she was not seeing her own fate, but the echoes of a life lived in secret, fleeting and shimmering like the candle’s flame in the endless mirror. 

The glimpses grew darker, sharper, more urgent. She saw him standing beneath harsh lights, eyes fixed on something beyond in an office. The air around him seemed to vibrate with expectation and dread, the rhythm of his life synchronized to an invisible countdown.

She caught a fleeting image of a small capsule, metallic and gleaming, a man, who looked strikingly like Maksim, in a stiff suit entering it with precise, solemn movements. She did not understand what it was, nor why the scene felt so unbearable, but the weight of inevitability pressed upon her chest. Every pulse of light across the mirror tunnel seemed to echo the silent, inescapable rhythm of a life hurtling toward an unseen conclusion.

Zlata’s stomach knotted, and though her lips parted to speak, no sound emerged. The candle flickered violently, shadows scattering the shards of a past she could not touch. Somewhere in that fragmented, mirrored world, she sensed a finality—something beautiful and ephemeral poised to vanish forever, leaving only the cold reflection of what once was.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.18 A CELESTIAL WALTZ

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For A Celestial Waltz

Zlata Karnaeva A principal ballerina of the Zinovi Theatre. Exhausted, disciplined, porous. Her body is both trained to obedience, and prone to transcendence. She moves through memory as if through fog, uncertain which experiences belong to waking life, which to rehearsal, and which to something far older and less merciful.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev (UNSEEN) A presence remembered through touch rather than chronology. Sensual, immediate, corporeal. He appears in Zlata’s memory as weight, warmth, and breath—an embodiment of intimacy that resists explanation. Whether lover, projection, or role bleeding through, he exists primarily as sensation.

Maksim "Maks" (UNSEEN) Quiet, watchful, restrained. His remembered actions are minimal but precise: entering the bed alone, turning toward Zlata, switching off the lamp. He represents a different axis of intimacy—silence instead of heat, proximity instead of possession. His reality to Zlata is no more stable than Aleksandr’s.

The Seven Stars (UNSEEN) A mythic corps of women, encountered in dream or vision. They are reflections and distortions of Zlata herself—her fears, ambitions, rivalries, and self-judgment given form. Gleaming, cruel, laughing. They function as both chorus and tribunal, reminding her of the cost of ascent.

The Ethereal Boy (UNSEEN) A disembodied male voice, fragmented and warm, arriving like a corrupted transmission from another plane of existence. Prophet, manipulator, or echo of a fate already set in motion—his origin remains unknown.

__

When Zlata opened her eyes, she realized she was inside the bedroom area of the dacha set. The ceiling above her was low and whitewashed, its beams painted in a soft hue that glowed faintly under the cold morning light.

For a long moment, she couldn’t tell if she had woken or if the dream still held her. She turned her head. A window stood ajar, the lace curtain breathing slowly with the draft, like a living lung. Snow dusted the sill in a fine glittering powder. The air smelled faintly of iron and cedar smoke.

She pushed herself up on one elbow. The sheets around her were tangled, the pillow still dented where another head had lain. She stared at the indentation, her pulse tightening.

Someone had been here. But who?

She tried to recall the night before.

The memory flickered like an old reel of film—Aleksandr’s hands, his face lowered against her neck, the weight of his body pressing against hers into the mattress.

Then, just as vividly, Maksim—his silence, the way he had crawled into this very same bed alone, then turned toward her before switching off the lamp on his bedside table.

It was all one scene to her, overlapping and bleeding through itself: two men, one bed, and a single, repeating moment that refused to stay linear.

Her head swam. What am I remembering?

She turned toward the window again, half-expecting one of the two men to appear beyond the frosted glass. There was nothing but the shimmer of snow and the distant hum of machinery from beyond the theatre walls.

Slowly, she threw back the covers and sat up. The cool air touched her bare skin, making her aware of how unreal her body felt—as though her shape had been borrowed, rehearsed, and then forgotten.

She slipped her feet into her soft tapochki slippers. They somehow grounded her, barely.

Somewhere beyond the closed door of the dacha set, applause broke out—the echo of a distant audience. Her cue. The scene, whatever it had been, was over.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The hallway leading to Zlata's dressing room was dim, its walls humming faintly with the electric current that powered the Zinovi Theatre’s hidden machinery. The bulbs overhead flickered in long intervals, stretching her shadow ahead of her like a ribbon. Her body felt heavy, her breath shallow, as if gravity itself thickened the closer she came to the room.

Inside her dressing room, the air was warm and faintly perfumed with rosin, sweat, and a trace of lilies from a bouquet—a withered offering left behind by someone she could no longer recall. The room was small but orderly: a narrow vanity lined with round bulbs, a single chair, her duffel bag folded open in the corner like an open wound.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment. Silence. Only her pulse remained, soft and uneven.

With slow precision, she began to undress. The fishnet pajamas slid from her skin like another layer of memory. Her black underclothes followed. She reached into her duffel and pulled out what she’d need for the next act: a white cotton tank top, cool to the touch, a black crêpe skirt, and a fresh pair of fishnet stockings that clung like spider silk against her thighs.

She dressed mechanically, her hands moving without thought, as though another mind guided her.

When she sat before the mirror, the bulbs around it burned dimly—each one pulsing in uneven rhythm, as though responding to her own unsettled heart. Her reflection appeared faintly doubled, the surface of the glass catching both her face and some unseen movement behind her. She tried not to look too long.

A strange heaviness pressed at the edges of her thoughts. Something about the previous night tugged at her—an echo of laughter, a flicker of movement, voices that weren’t quite her own.

She frowned and rubbed at her temples, trying to summon clarity.

Yes. There had been a dream—or what she thought was a dream. Seven women sitting around her in the rehearsal hall, all of them gleaming under a phantom light, their smiles bright and cruel. They were the Seven Stars—the mythic corps of women in the ballet, each a reflection of her character’s own fears. They had laughed at her, their laughter breaking like glass.

And then there had been the man. Some sort of seer, probably. His voice had come through like a faulty recording, warm and broken, a message from somewhere outside her realm of existence. “My future betrothed, come to me,” he had said.

Now, under the electric light, she dismissed it as the usual exhaustion of rehearsals. Still, a part of her wondered if she had brought something back from that dream, something that now lingered invisibly in the room with her.

She reached for her comb, dragging it through her hair until the motion became rhythmic and hypnotic. Then she twisted her hair up into a high ponytail, looping it and pinning it beneath itself, her fingers quick and precise. The act of creating her bun was more than habit—it was cathartic in a way. Each pin, a small vow of control to her.

When it was done, she stared at her reflection again.

Her face looked pale, waxen. The bulbs buzzed faintly around her.

Zlata opened her duffel again and drew out her new pointe shoes, their satin skin untouched by the stage. She set them on the floor beside her. The soft rustle of fabric seemed to echo too loudly in the small room.

She retrieved her sewing kit and sat cross-legged on the cool floor. The scent of chalk and glue rose as she unfolded the kit, revealing needles, thread, ribbons, and elastic.

Her hands worked methodically: expertly threading the needle, anchoring the first ribbon, securing the elastic with tight, invisible stitches. Each pierce of the needle into satin made a sound like a heartbeat.

When she finished, she took her utility knife and gently scored the soles. The blade hissed faintly as it split the fibers, softening the shank until the arch gave way beneath her thumbs. She pressed her face close to the shoes, breathing in their faint sweetness—the mingled scent of fabric, glue... and the promise of pain.

She slid gel pads and bits of lamb’s wool into the toes, shaping the comfort she would later destroy.

Finally, she slipped her feet into the invisible socks, then into the shoes themselves. She wound the ribbons around her ankles: once, twice—then crossed, knotted, tucked beneath. The sound of the satin sliding across skin was strangely intimate to her.

When she flexed her foot, the shoe creaked faintly. She arched, testing the strength, then bent forward and touched the floor, the cold surface grounding her back into her body.

She sat for a while, motionless, her hands resting on her knees. Then, she rose from the floor and stepped into the backstage corridor. The hum of the theatre filled her ears again—the low breathing of the Great City itself. Somewhere far above, Aksinya’s artificial sky revolved in its cocoon of glass and plasma, but down here in the theatre, time had no direction.

When she stepped onto the stage, the air changed.

The curtains were rising again, heavy fabric draping upward like a veil. The set of the dacha had vanished, replaced by a bare stage lit by a handful of suspended lights. The theatre’s ceiling was lost in shadow, as though it extended upward into infinity.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Zlata could feel the eyes of the audience on her even before she saw them. The hush before the music began was electric—a silence that trembled like breath held too long. Her pulse synced with it.

She walked into the light, arms folded delicately across her chest. Her ballet shoes whispered against the floor. The music began—only it wasn't the strings of the orchestra, but a vibration that seemed to come from beneath the stage, low and resonant, like the sound of a distant synth.

She started with small, deliberate steps. Each motion carved her body out of the silence, her shape unfolding in graceful arcs. The dance began to consume her.

Her arms swept upward, soft and fluid; her legs extended, spinning, curling, unfolding. Her movements were exact, but her mind began to drift—disassembling thought from gesture, feeling from flesh. The world beyond the stage faded.

She felt herself slipping into rhythm, the pattern overtaking her body, her breath aligning with the invisible pulse beneath the floor. Her hands lifted again, crossing, uncrossing, her back arching in surrender.

She leapt—and then the stage disappeared. For one exquisite moment, she was weightless.

The lights overhead winked out, one by one, until only the faint glow of her own motion remained. The ceiling dissolved into darkness.

She kept spinning, her skirt flaring around her like a black wing. Her feet barely brushed the ground. The boundaries of her body began to blur. The stage melted into space. Above her, a thousand stars unfolded, gleaming cold and sharp. The silence was absolute, save for her own breath, the faint rustle of her skirt in the vacuum between notes.

She twirled faster, her movements widening, expanding, her heart surging in time with some vast rhythm that rose from the void. And then, she heard it—distant but real: the echo of applause.

Not from the audience before her, but from somewhere beyond the walls of Aksinya. It rolled over her like a tide, deep and resonant, as though the very stars themselves were clapping in slow, celestial rhythm.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She raised her arms again, spinning into the infinite dark, her heart racing faster until it felt like it might burn through her chest.

Her body became pure light. Her soul unspooled, unraveling into motion, scattering like stardust across the void. She was not dancing anymore—she was ascending. And as she spun, she felt something vast stir in response. A hum beneath her ribs. A pulse that did not belong to her, but she couldn’t identify the source. It pulsed once, twice—then matched her rhythm exactly.

Her body, her breath, her memory—each became a filament of light winding through the dark, connecting her to something she could neither name nor escape. She smiled through the tears, her mouth open in silent laughter.

And when the light returned, she was alone again—shivering, trembling, glowing faintly beneath the dim stage lamps of the Zinovi Theatre.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.17 THE SEVEN STARS

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Seven Stars

Zlata Karnaeva A ballerina caught between memory, performance, and prophecy. Fragile and ferocious by turns, she is both witness and participant in the ritual unfolding around her. Her sense of self fractures across mirrors and time, forcing her to confront not only loss and desire, but the shadow of who she might yet become.

The Seven Stars A manic chorus of women drawn from the ballet Silence of the Crystal Star. Together they embody the seductive forces that orbit greatness: vanity, temptation, fame, ruin, madness, jealousy, and desire. They blur the boundary between characters, memories, and hallucinations—laughing as one, prophesying in fragments, and surrounding Zlata as both mirrors and judges.

Alina The first of the Seven Stars to emerge from the dark. Radiant, mocking, and unnervingly intimate, she serves as the unofficial mouthpiece of the chorus. Her affection is barbed, her comfort theatrical.

Sveta (Svetlana) The Star of Vanity. World-weary and sharp-tongued, she speaks with the resigned glamour of someone who has already survived the fall. Her prophecies come cloaked in cynicism, as though heartbreak were an inevitability one learns to wear well.

Marya The Star of Temptation. Playful, restless, and cruelly amused, she delights in repetition and spectacle. She wields the flashlight like a conductor’s baton, turning light itself into mischief and manipulation.

Vika (Viktoriya) The Star of Fame. Brash and cutting, her mockery exposes the transactional cruelty of ambition. Her laughter carries the weight of bitter experience, and her words echo with the costs of being seen.

Ksenia The Star of Desire. Soft-spoken but devastating, she oscillates between seduction and grief.

Valeria The Star of Madness. Languid, philosophical, and unsettlingly serene, she frames chaos as doctrine. To her, collapse is simply another movement in the choreography.

Natalya The Star of Ruin. Gentle in tone and devastating in implication, she justifies darkness as destiny. She speaks like absolution itself—making the monstrous feel inevitable, even beautiful.

Allen The Pianist. A stooped, silent figure who appears without announcement. His music is cyclical, hypnotic, and faintly mocking—less accompaniment than spell. He marks time where time should not exist.

The Ethereal Boy A flickering, almost-human presence transmitted through distortion. Twenty-seven years old, gentle, and impossibly distant, he delivers an ancient ritual like a broadcast from another reality.

The Other Zlata A mirrored double. She is Zlata’s shadow-self: envy, rage, hunger, ambition, and the aching desire to be more than mortal.

--

The bulb in the lamp swelled with brilliance—then burst.

Darkness rushed in—dense and immediate, swallowing the rehearsal hall whole. The sound died too; even her breathing seemed to vanish into the void. Zlata sat perfectly still, her back pressed against the mirrored wall. Her pulse thudded in her ears, an echo of the light that had once lived inside the baroque lamp. Now there was nothing but the afterimage—brightness remembered by the body.

Then a sound: a faint click. A narrow beam of light appeared, trembling in the distance. It wavered once, then fixed itself upon her face. It was a flashlight.

It illuminated a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor—someone who hadn’t been there before, whose smile gleamed too wide in the darkness. The beam shifted, sweeping across the room, glancing off the mirrors. The light fractured into restless circles that darted across the walls like living things.

The woman’s grin widened. “Aww,” she crooned, “did he leave you heartbroken, milashka?”

Her name surfaced like an echo. Alina.

Zlata blinked, disbelieving. Alina—one of the Seven Stars from Silence of the Crystal Star ballet! Fragments of the ballet story were slowly starting to come back to her. These women were in Aleksandr’s ballet corps who represented vanity, temptation, fame, ruin, madness, jealousy, and desire.

The flashlight beam shifted again, and in its halo appeared six other women, all sitting or reclining against the mirrored walls, each one smiling with the same manic delight.

They were dressed in an explosion of neon—electric pink tights, chartreuse colored leotards, azure pointe shoes tied with gleaming ribbons. Their outfits shimmered, the light gleaming along elastic straps wrapping their calves, and along sequined sleeves that looked painted on by light itself.

Some faces struck Zlata as familiar—like reflections of women she might have known from rehearsals she’d forgotten.

“Welcome to club, hun,” Sveta said dryly, tossing her dark hair with the careless glamour of someone who’d already surrendered to heartbreak.

“‘Life of ballerina is short,’ Aleks says,” Marya chimed in, twirling the flashlight’s beam across the mirrored ceiling.

“Yeah, he’s all like, ‘I want you to be my lover, and then I will support you,’” Vika mocked, her accent thick, her grin cruel.

“‘If you can’t pay your dues, seduce patron to pay your way,’” Ksenia added, fluttering her lashes.

“We may have our own chaos,” Valeria declared, stretching languidly across the floor, “but show must continue.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Zlata,” Natalya said, her tone deceptively gentle. “He may be all love and romance on surface—but underneath, he’s boiling with darkness. He can’t help it. That’s what makes him shine.”

The Seven Stars laughed in unison, the sound echoing through the mirrored hall until it became impossible to tell who was speaking, who was even real.

Zlata pressed her palms to her eyes, the tears spilling freely now. She remembered them—their laughter from the ballet, the way they’d surround her in the final act before her character’s demise. But this wasn’t choreography. This was haunting.

Something stirred at the piano. A soft scrape of wood against the sprung floor. Allen, the pianist in the ballet story, had appeared—stooped, expressionless, his fingers already poised above the keys. Without a word, he began to play a simple, cyclical melody. Dreamlike, and mocking.

The Seven Stars began to sway in time, their reflections multiplying endlessly in the mirrors, all smiling too much, all watching Zlata silently cry.

Alina leaned forward, the flashlight Marya had passed over to her, trembling in her hand. “Do you want to know your fortune?”

Zlata said nothing, but she recognized those words, echoing those of her Landlord's.

The flashlight passed from one to the next, each woman speaking a fragment like utterances of a spell.

“You close your eyes to dream,” Sveta whispered.

“And when you open them, someone there will feel familiar,” Marya added.

“Friend from different time—” said Vika.

“Different place—” murmured Ksenia.

“Everything that separates must converge eventually,” Valeria said solemnly.

“In time, you will see,” Natalya finished, almost tenderly.

The flashlight beam dimmed, its battery dying, but the mirrors still glowed faintly, as though absorbing the light themselves.

Zlata buried her face in her hands and wept harder. The room swayed gently, the piano notes bending out of tune. When she lifted her head again, she was no longer in the rehearsal hall.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Snow was falling somewhere outside.

Zlata was standing on a narrow street lined with neoclassical buildings. The air was sharp and metallic, each breath stinging her lungs. She looked around in disbelief. The architecture was unmistakable—ornate, crumbling, crowned with onion domes and old signage in Cyrillic.

Moscow—but that was impossible. Moscow had been gone for centuries, she thought. She remembered learning in primary school about how Aksinya’s orbit was light-years away from a ruined planet that was once known as "Earth".

Alina stood on the snowy street in front of Zlata now, still glowing in neon. Snow clung to her lashes. Next to her, Ksenia wept silently, one tear tracing her cheek.

“Do you remember who I am?” Ksenia asked Zlata softly.

Zlata shook her head, confused.

“Ballet company,” Alina said, pointing across the street to a pale stone building crowned with angels. “It’s where it happened.”

Zlata turned to look at the building—and in that moment, before she could process what was happening, her surroundings blurred.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The Moscow street folded into itself like a reflection disturbed by water.

Then a voice—male, gentle, but not quite human—broke through the air, fractured by static. 

“Do you want—to know your fortune?”

The words stuttered and looped, dissolving into the cold air before reforming again, softer, smoother—like a needle catching on vinyl.

Zlata gasped.

She felt herself caught inside wavering static, then an image began to form before her: a man in a furlong coat, twenty-seven at most, framed by some ancient circus tent and candlelight. His outline flickered, occasionally splitting into two overlapping figures before collapsing back into one.

His smile was gentle, teasing—but his voice, when it returned, carried the dissonance of something broadcast from far beyond her reality. “At midnight,” he continued, the distortion ebbing and returning in waves, “let your hair down and place two small mirrors at angles on either side of large one.”  The static thickened, washing through his words like a tide of snow. “Form tunnel of reflections", he went on. “Put one candle between them… and light it.” Then the static softened into a whisper, almost tender now—human again, but faint, fading. “Then say, ‘My future betrothed, come to me,’ and look into mirror… before you.”

The final word fractured into a sound like radio snow. The man’s image dissolved with it, leaving only his eyes suspended in the dark—soft, searching, and terribly sad.

Then they, too, vanished, leaving Zlata alone in the falling static of silence.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The snow in Moscow fell harder. A candle flame flickered in her mind’s eye—gold light repeating endlessly down an infinite corridor of glass. She blinked, and suddenly she was back in the mirrored rehearsal hall.

The Seven Stars surrounded her once more, laughing, their neon colors now bleeding into one another like paint in water. The mirrors reflected infinite versions of herself—some smiling, some crying, some blank-eyed and still.

Zlata looked up—and froze.

High above her, another Zlata stared down. The figure mirrored her every movement with eerie precision, only half a second behind, like a dancer struggling to keep time.

The sight made her stomach drop.

She understood, without understanding, that this other self was her shadow in the ballet story—everything she’d exiled: envy, rage, hunger, the secret longing to be seen as something more than human.

The Seven Stars laughed harder, their voices merging into one distorted chorus. The mirrors pulsed, and she saw all her selves collapse into a single reflection—crying, lost, reaching toward glass that no longer separated her from anything.

She closed her eyes, pressing her palms to her face, trying to hold herself together.

When she opened them again, she was still in the rehearsal hall—yet she wasn’t sure what the Great City of Aksinya was anymore, or what time meant inside it.

Was she alive? Was she still under Ximyera's hallucination? Or was this all perhaps just a feverish dream? Or could this be part of her ballet performance?

Her mind reeled.

She could no longer tell if she was remembering her past or rehearsing her own future.

And as the piano’s final note faded into silence, the mirrors went dark, erasing every reflection but one.

Hers.

Breathing, trembling, desperate to wake.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.16 THE FIRST TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The First Temporal Displacement

Zlata Karnaeva A ballerina caught between realities, identities, and memories. Sensitive, observant, and increasingly fractured, she moves through the city and its spaces as both participant and witness.

Maksim "Maks" A quiet, controlled presence associated with stability, restraint, and a dependable but subdued love. Appears carrying a cosmonaut suit, his silence conveys resignation rather than accusation.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev A magnetic, dangerous force who exists primarily through memory and emotional residue. Co-lead who plays an artistic authority within the ballet show, and who made Zlata feel singular and extraordinary, yet whose gaze ultimately objectifies and consumes. Represents obsession, creative intoxication, and eros entangled with power.

The Double (Other Zlata) A physical manifestation of Zlata’s fractured self: the past version of her engaged in anonymous intimacy with the wealthy man.

__

The world tilted. The velvet curtains of the stage dissolved into light, and Zlata felt herself being pulled through them—as if gravity had changed its mind about where down should be.

For an instant she thought she was falling, but when the vertigo eased, she was standing on a brightly lit train platform inside a building somewhere in Plate 06.

The air here was sharp, too clear. Fluorescent light bled from the ceiling in sterile ribbons, glinting off the polished metal of the platform rails. Zlata blinked. Her body felt both weightless and too heavy, as though her skin had been left behind in the dacha set in Zinovi Theatre's stage.

Was this a dream? Was she still under the Ximyera’s spell? Or had she… died?

Her stomach turned. A darker thought surfaced—had Aleksandr… raped her? No! No, she refused to believe it. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But the memory of that scene on the dacha set—his hands pinning her down, the laughter that wasn’t laughter—made her chest tighten.

She tried to remember what the ballet was even about, but the story had begun to unravel in her mind, as if its choreography were being torn out from her memory scene by scene.

When she looked around, she saw no one. The platform was empty. The silence hummed faintly, mechanical and infinite. She was holding a duffel bag—the same one she always brought to rehearsal, heavy with shoes, a towel, her notes, and other items.

Her reflection in the polished metal wall looked like someone else playing her, as if she were a mere character.

A distant horn suddenly blared from deep within the tunnel of the building she was in. Its echo rippled through the platform. Zlata turned toward the sound, heart racing, as the hovering electromagnetic masts along the rails flared to life one by one.

A sleek train slid out of the tunnel—a silver leviathan moving without sound. Through its long windows, she could see rows of vacant seats, ghostlike in the white light. When it stopped, the air shifted in a soft hydraulic sigh.

A melodic chime played over the speakers, followed by a calm, feminine voice in Russian: “This is Plate 02 bound express train. Next stop is: Plate 02, Sky Deck 14-C.”

Zlata stepped forward as one of the doors that aligned with her hissed open. The interior of the train glowed faintly pink.

She hesitated only a second before stepping in, sitting down in the nearest seat.

The doors slid shut. Another chime sounded: “Step back—doors closing.”

Then the world lurched.

The train began to move, gliding forward with an almost liquid smoothness. She braced herself against the seat as the tunnel lights flickered past, rhythmically painting her face in alternating bands of shadow and light.

The hum beneath the floor of the train car matched her pulse.

The train emerged from the tunnel, and the city of Aksinya unfolded all around her like a waking dream.

The city plates stretched in layers below, vast districts spinning slowly in synchronized orbit around the Citadel. Light from thousands of towers shimmered through the darkness. She could see the metallic veins of the city glinting, the slow rotation of glass domes, the drifting fog that curled between them.

The train descended gracefully, its electromagnetic masts adjusting, angling downward toward Plate 02.

Zlata pressed a palm to the window. The surface was cold, humming faintly under her touch.

Below, the searchlights of the Theatre District swept through the sky, white beams slicing across shadow. As the train drew closer, she saw a wide boulevard glittering with snow. People in long coats and silks crossed the street toward a grand hotel, their laughter echoing faintly through the glass.

Next to the hotel’s entrance stood a theatre—its name glowing faintly in blue Cyrillic: Zinovi Theatre.

Zlata felt something shift in her chest. Of course. She knew this place. She had performed here once—or dreamt she had.

The train slowed. Its chime sounded again, and the voice announced the otherwise vacant train's arrival.

She stepped off with her duffel bag, boots clicking against the metal platform. Behind her, the doors closed in perfect unison, and the train slid away like a thought leaving consciousness.

The station was nearly dark. The only visible exit was a narrow alley between the hotel and the theatre.

Bemused but drawn by instinct, she walked toward it. The air there was colder, smelling faintly of wet stone. An old streetlight flickered overhead, casting long, trembling shadows on the walls.

Halfway through the alley, the bulb flared bright white—then burst, plunging everything into blackness.

Zlata gasped. Her pulse thundered in her ears. For a moment she couldn’t see her own hands. Then, ahead, a faint glow appeared: a rectangle of yellow light spilling from a window in a door.

She walked toward it.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Setting her duffel bag down, she peered through the glass of the door in the alleyway. Beyond it was a hallway lined with ornate paneling and gilded mirrors—an old hotel corridor, echoing with faint music from somewhere inside.

Zlata pushed the door open and stepped inside. The scent of dust and lilac perfume drifted up from the carpets.

She moved down the hall slowly, her footsteps muffled. A sound reached her—soft, rhythmic, human. Moaning. The sound of pleasure, private and raw.

She froze. The voice… it was familiar.

She crept toward an open door of a suite and looked inside.

A woman lay naked on the bed, her skin pale in the dim lamplight. The man above her moved with a kind of desperate grace, his face buried against her neck. The woman turned her head slightly—and Zlata’s stomach dropped.

The woman on the bed was herself.

Zlata stumbled backward in the hallway, a strangled sound escaping her throat.

The man jerked upright, startled, scanning the room. For one terrible second, his eyes seemed to meet hers.

Zlata turned and ran.

The hallway spun around her, stretching into endless repetition. She heard the door burst open behind her—the man’s footsteps echoing, closer, closer.

She reached the door she entered the hall from, flung it open, and stumbled back into the freezing alleyway. She slammed the door shut and pressed her palms against the glass, holding it closed as she saw the man approaching.

He ran toward her, shirt unbuttoned, chest gleaming with sweat. When his hand met the glass, the world convulsed.

Light warped. Her arms blurred at the edges, his hands bending like heat haze. Space folded between them—ripples in reality itself.

He froze, looking down at his hand as if it had touched something not quite solid. Then his gaze shifted, unfocused, as though he couldn't see her through the glass at all. Slowly, he turned away and walked back down the hall until he vanished.

Zlata sagged against the door, breath shallow, her heart hammering so hard it hurt.

When she finally looked up, she noticed another doorway across the alley—a service entrance to the Zinovi Theatre, next door to the hotel. Its lights flickered on, one by one, as if sensing her presence.

She picked up her duffel bag and crossed over.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Inside the Zinovi Theatre, the backstage corridor was bright and cluttered, the glow of the hallway washing everything in violet light. She moved quietly, her boots echoing softly against the floor.

Ahead, a door opened. A man stepped out of a dressing room.

Maksim.

He was holding a cosmonaut’s suit with the helmet tucked in one arm. His gaze found hers, cool and unreadable. Neither spoke.

He turned and walked toward the main stage in the opposite direction. Zlata followed at a distance, drawn by something she didn’t understand.

As Maksim approached the stage, the heavy velvet curtains rose by themselves, revealing the exterior of the dacha set. Maksim entered the set and walked quietly into the bedroom area, placed the cosmonaut suit delicately into the armoire, and laid down on the bed as though he’d always belonged there.

He turned toward her once as she stood in the doorway of the set, his eyes glinting in the dim light, before switching off the lamp on his bedside table.

She stepped backward out of the dacha, closing the door quietly behind her.

She exited the stage, the velvet curtains closing once more behind her, and made her way to the empty hallway backstage once again.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

She found the rehearsal room down the corridor and slipped inside.

The space was washed in the warm glow of a baroque lamp that sat atop a black grand piano. The mirrors along the walls reflected her in endless variations—each one slightly off, each one breathing just a fraction too late.

Zlata sank to the floor, her duffel bag forgotten beside her. She drew her knees up to her chest and began to cry.

She thought of Maksim first—his steady hands, his gentle restraint, the quiet, dependable love she’d abandoned. The kind of love that offered stability but no light. She had traded that quietness for the brilliance of something else—something intoxicating.

Aleksandr.

Even thinking his name felt dangerous, like stepping too close to a flame. His voice still lived in her bones. She could almost feel his hands again, guiding her hips into the shape of a pirouette, his touch equal parts instruction and possession.

Her tears slowed. In their place came a strange warmth, a kind of reverence. Aleksandr had made her believe she was extraordinary. He had seen her not as a dancer, but as the entire ballet itself—the music, the movement, the story incarnate.

But beneath that memory, another rose like an undertow: his eyes looking through her, not at her. The more she tried to focus on his tenderness, the more she saw the truth bleeding through it.

The lamp on top of the piano flickered once.

She stared at it through her tears.

Why had she followed him so completely? Why had she mistaken the hunger in his eyes for love?

The lamp pulsed again, the baroque glass shade breathing with faint, amber light.

Because he saw me, she thought sadly. When no one else did.

The lamp flickered violently, as if struck by a sudden gust from within. The mirrors flashed white, every reflection flaring into a dozen ghosts of herself, each one caught mid-revelation.

Zlata looked up, startled, her tears glistening in the bright, impossible light.

“Aleks…” she whispered, the name breaking apart on her tongue.

The bulb in the lamp swelled with brilliance—then burst.

[zlatakarnaeva]

NO.15 THE PREMIERE

CAST OF CHARACTERS

For The Premiere

Zlata Karnaeva Principal ballerina and lead of Silence of the Crystal Star. On opening night, she exists in a fractured state between stage, memory, hallucination, and identity. Haunted by Ximyera’s aftereffects and by accumulated moral injury, she can no longer reliably distinguish choreography from recollection, fantasy from history, or desire from violation. Her consciousness becomes the primary battleground of this scene.

Aleksandr "Aleks" Lebedev Co-lead dancer and onstage partner. Appears here less as a stable person and more as a mutable projection—at times lover, at times aggressor, at times symbolic stand-in for other men from Zlata’s past. Functions as a mirror through which Zlata’s shame, longing, and fear manifest.

Kazimir Dainov Choreographer and architect of the ballet’s philosophical universe. Standing in the wings as a master of ceremony, unaware that his thematic explorations of desire, sacrifice, and recurrence have begun to cannibalize the psyche of his lead dancer.

The Conductor Silent initiator of the performance’s threshold. Raises the baton that opens both the physical curtain and Zlata’s psychological descent.

Maksim "Maks" Zlata’s former fiancé, sensed rather than seen. His possible presence in the doorway becomes a symbol of guilt, unfinished attachment, and moral witness.

Mikhail (Memory Figure) Wealthy patron from the gala, resurfacing through distorted recollection. Represents transactional intimacy, self-betrayal, and the repeating pattern of being desired as an object rather than a person.

The Unnamed Man at the Banquet (Past Memory) Possibly real, possibly conflated with Mikhail. A prior iteration of the same violation-shaped encounter. Functions as evidence of cyclical trauma.

The Ballerina Character (Within the Ballet) The role Zlata is performing. A tragic figure entangled in lust, degradation, love, and loss. Increasingly indistinguishable from Zlata herself. May be less a character than an echo of Zlata’s lived emotional history.

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It was opening night for Silence of the Crystal Star ballet. The chandeliers of the Zinovi Theatre blazed like constellations, their golden light reflecting off silk gowns and the polished medals worn by Aksinya’s dignitaries. Outside the theatre, lines of sleek black hovercars idled, their doors opened by white-gloved attendants as Aksinya’s elite stepped onto the newly draped carpet leading down to the entrance of Zinovi Theatre.

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The grand marble staircase inside pulsed with movement and excited chatter. Oligarchs clutching opera glasses, retired prima ballerinas with diamonds woven into their hair, and Citadel officials in tailored tuxedos with glistening bowties, ascended towards their seats across the tiers of the main theatre, whispering names, speculations, and predictions about the mysterious new ballet about to unfold before them.

Kazimir stood in the wings, headset clamped over his ears, hands trembling from adrenaline. Months of intense 16-hour days had culminated to this moment. He understood that a premiere at the Zinovi Theatre was not just a performance, it was a cultural event of significance, steeped in grandeur, tradition, and immense prestige for the space city of Aksinya.

As it was the debut of an entirely new production, the stakes were particularly high; the Zinovi name carried weight, and mistakes were not to be taken lightly. 

A low bell chimed through the ornate auditorium. Doors closed. Conversations died, then silence. The Conductor raised his baton, and with a swell of strings by the orchestra, the curtain lifted.

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Zlata opened her eyes and found herself in the bedroom area of the dacha—a set piece on the main stage, though it looked and felt far too real for her. The air shimmered faintly, the wallpaper breathing in rhythm with her pulse. For a moment, she couldn’t tell whether she had died after taking the Ximyera at the party, or if she was still trapped inside its feverish hallucination. Every texture within the set seemed alive with meaning; every shadow leaned closer, waiting for her to decide which world she belonged to.

She also had flashes of the hallucinations that still clung like ash to her memory. Did she float through the stars or fall into darkness? Did Aleksandr reach for her? Her own motivations were murky. The drug she took was a moment of reckoning for her—not just for her health, but for what she was willing to endure: for success, for attention… for love. She began to question not only her role in the ballet, but the roles she played off-stage. With her co-star Aleksandr, with her ex-fiancé Maksim, and with the public.

She could no longer discern what was real and what was happening as part of the show.

Aksinya is your stage, and stars that lie beyond Great City is your audience, she recalled Kazimir declaring during their initial meeting. 

She was lost in her own mind as she laid underneath Aleksandr. She was struggling to get out from under him as he humped her on the edge of the bed, but Aleksandr pinned her arms firmly above her head with his strong hands. She could sense someone standing in the set’s entryway nearby; was it Maks?

Zlata remembered telling Aleksandr she loved him during their final rehearsal, but no one seemed to have heard her at the time. Now, however, she noticed Aleksandr’s lips move, as if in slow motion, but she was unsure if anyone else could hear him now; it was a ballet after all. There was typically no dialogue as everything was conveyed through expressions, arm movements, and dance.

“Do you know what whores do?” Aleksandr asked her. His lips moving slow and quietly, but his body moving faster into his own rhythm.

She grimaced in pain as she acquiesced to Aleksandr’s grip. “They fuck,” she heard herself reply.

“Oy yeah they do – and, luckily for me –” Zlata watched as Aleksandr leaned down to whisper into her ear, “-I like ballerinas.”

She opened her eyes in shock as a sensation of déjà vu suddenly overcame her; a flood of memories were coming back in droves. She remembered having a boyfriend in a different time, a fateful encounter with his jealous wife, the intense feelings of love, the incomprehensible loss... the guilt. 

These are merely the themes of the ballet story I’m in, she thought, trying to reassure herself and bring herself back to the present moment. She attempted to focus on her performance (was it a performance?) but was feeling her consciousness slowly leave her as she recalled a rendezvous with a man at a banquet. That moment was eerily similar to her encounter with Mikhail at the gala. She remembered the same sense of self-condemnation she had felt at the time as she walked up to that man, and the subsequent feeling of emptiness she had experienced as she laid under him in a similar position to Aleksandr now, and how that man had uttered those exact words in her ear when they were in bed as well.

She questioned herself, wondering if that memory at the banquet was just a retrospective falsification of her memory at the gala. Only thing was, she remembers the man at the banquet looking exactly like Mikhail, whom she slept with at the Rodya Grande Hotel during the gala she attended.

Unfortunately for Zlata, as she briefly brought herself back into the present moment, she had immediately recalled the woman at the gala that Aleksandr had seduced. Saddened by that memory, she closed her blue-grey eyes, tears pooling within her lashes before they streamed down towards her ears and into her pink-blonde hair. 

“Am I your ballerina, Aleks?” she heard herself ask Aleksandr in a whisper. She opened her wet eyes and noticed his face was gradually fading away to nothingness, as if he (or perhaps herself) was warping away from that moment. Aleksandr spasmed, grinning euphorically.

“I’m afraid,” she heard herself whisper to him. She closed her eyes again as tears continued to stream, and her consciousness was gone from their scene as he laughed maliciously.