Stalingrad. November, 1981.
The hospital corridor was immersed in silence, broken only by the distant clinking of footsteps on the cold tiles and the occasional beep of medical monitors. It was a cold that penetrated the bones, typical of a harsh Russian winter, and in the emergency room, the atmosphere carried something beyond routine medical care: there was surprise, a touch of disbelief.
Two staff members were whispering near the door. A weary-looking police officer, his jacket soaked from the ice clinging to Moscow streets, murmured under his breath:
— It's impossible… she must be only two at the very most and was out in the middle of winter, how could she be...completely fine. No hypothermia, no frostbite. God knows how long she was out there.
A pale nurse with sharp eyes nodded, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air of the corridor:
— Yes… it's really strange. No serious injuries, no signs of malnutrition, nothing. It's as if… she survived alone.
In the center of the room, lying in a metal crib, was a tiny girl. Her red curls were spread over the pillow, slightly disheveled from the cold and sleep, and her green eyes blinked slowly, curious but still unaware of the world around her. Every movement seemed to measure the space, absorbing stimuli without fear, as if her body had already learned to assess danger instinctively.
The police officer cautiously approached, observing every gesture of the girl, while the nurse checked the improvised medical records.
— We need to document this. I've never seen anything like it. She must have spent hours in subzero temperatures and… — He swallowed hard, looking at the girl with a mix of astonishment and unease. — She's intact.
The nurse frowned, adjusting the soft bandages protecting the girl's head:
— We'll have to wait for child services or some government agency… or… someone who can care for her.
No one knew exactly what to do. This small child, found in the middle of a harsh winter, had no documents, no apparent relatives. Every detail of her survival seemed to defy medical logic, and the child's curious gaze only heightened the strangeness of the environment.
Three hours later, a man entered the hospital with firm, decisive steps. Tall and lean, grayish disheveled hair, and a soiled beige overcoat, he had piercing blue eyes that seemed to cut through everything. Mikhail, as he introduced himself, did not need to raise his voice to command authority; his presence carried a silent, almost predatory weight.
The nurse hesitated but handed him the papers documenting the girl, watching cautiously as he examined every detail.
— Is she healthy? — he asked, his voice firm and direct, without a trace of warmth. — No illnesses, no hidden injuries?
— Yes — replied the nurse, still a little intimidated by his intensity. — No signs of disease, no serious injuries. Just minor superficial bruises.
Mikhail picked the girl up with the skill of someone used to handling children, holding her firmly yet without causing discomfort. The child, still drowsy, sucked her thumb and looked at him with wide, curious eyes, but she did not cry. He smiled almost imperceptibly, appreciating the strange calm emanating from her.
— My name is Mikhail. I have come to take you. — His voice was low, almost musical, yet filled with authority. — The Red Room Academy will take care of you now.
The child didn't understand, of course, but she felt the firmness of his touch and the constant presence beside her. He led her through the icy sidewalk, ignoring the biting winter wind, to a black van parked discreetly. With each step, the silence seemed to deepen. The child pressed closer instinctively, as if that gesture could protect her.
Inside the van, the journey was quiet. Mikhail drove attentively, checking the rearview mirrors, while the girl watched the world pass by through the windows. Houses disappeared into the snow, and the urban landscape gradually transformed into frozen fields and dense forests. With every turn, the feeling of isolation grew. When the van finally stopped in front of a large stone building with tall windows, the girl's eyes widened.
— This is where you will be living now — Mikhail said, no further explanation needed.
The entrance hall was cold, vast, with black-and-white marble floors and mahogany staircases ascending to the upper floors. Long, shadowy corridors stretched from either side; some rooms showed signs of activity, others remained silent and empty. A group of girls watched silently from the top of the stairs, uniformed and still, their gazes weighing heavily on the newcomer.
Mikhail led the girl to a heavy wooden door. He knocked three times, and a calm, firm voice commanded:
— Enter.
The door opened, and the girl was led inside. Madame B., the director, sat behind a large wooden desk, examining papers with intense blue eyes. Blonde hair streaked with gray framed her elegant face, and her posture radiated absolute control over the environment.
— Hand over the documents and sit — Madame B. ordered.
The girl, obeyed, still not fully comprehending what was happening. Madame B. studied her closely before speaking, her voice calm but unmistakably authoritative:
— I don't care who you're before, from now on you will have a new name, a new identity. You are now Natalia Romanova.
Natalia's small hands clenched instinctively, her mind struggling to grasp the permanence of the words. Madame B. allowed the moment to hang in the air, ensuring the gravity of the change settled in the child.
— Your parents will not return. This is your new world. — Madame B.'s eyes locked with Natalia's, conveying a silent warning and promise in equal measure.
The child remained still, feeling the weight of the statement. She did not fully understand the absence of her parents, but the intention was clear: the world she knew was gone, and all that remained was the rigorous discipline of the Red Room Academy.
Madame B. stood and walked to Natalia, placing a delicate hand on her shoulder.
— We are your family now — she said, her gaze unwavering, ensuring Natalia absorbed every word.
Natalia shivered slightly, and something inside her stirred. A primitive instinct for survival began to take shape, the first spark of defense and awareness. The Red Room accepted no weakness. She would learn pretty soon that every gesture, every look, every sound was a clue about the world around her, and that her survival depended on absorbing and mastering that perception.