Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 11:50 PM — MGR: 24
small cache—springs, shavings of brass, and one bent firing pin
"Now get back into the station," the Quartermaster said, setting the empty cup down with a soft, final clink. "You'll want gruel and sleep after the work you did. And you'll need the strength to bargain."
Mikhail nodded once. "Yeah." He moved past the booth into the main corridor.
He moved past the guard post and into the main artery of the station, where the stale warmth of bodies and machines hit him like a physical wave. The place was alive again—waking, throbbing, almost groaning under the weight of its own survival.
The Metro breathed around him:
the low metallic ache of generators struggling against age,
the clang and rumble of handcarts on rails,
the hiss of steam escaping pipes that hadn't been replaced in decades.
Voices overlapped. Vendors hawking stale bread, scavengers bartering scrap, someone arguing about filters, someone crying about a missing ration chit. Every noise was a reminder that desperation, here, was industry.
Mikhail threaded through the crowd, boots crunching over grit and coal dust. He didn't feel hungry, but he needed to see her.
He went straight to Katerina's booth.
She was there, as always. But something about her shape was wrong. Her posture held the same rhythm, the same practiced motions, but her presence felt… muted. Like someone had turned down the brightness in her eyes and left only the shell running on habit.
He slid onto the worn wooden stool.
The morning surge was in full force. Steam rose thick from her pots, lit by the flickering lamps overhead. The smell of fried fungus and coal mixed into the familiar haze of her corner.. and yet she seemed small inside it, swallowed by the smoke instead of standing over it.
"Katerina," he started, but she cut over him with a brittle, mechanical brightness.
"First of all, it's Katya to you," she said—but her voice lacked its usual spark. The quip was shaped like humor but hollow inside, rehearsed. Her eyes didn't meet his; they stayed fixed on the pot as she stirred, slow and deliberate.
He blinked. The last time he'd seen her, her eyes were puffy, her cheeks stained with dried tears she tried to hide behind the stove's smoke. Today, she wasn't crying—but her face was pale, drawn tight in places it hadn't been before.
She didn't meet his gaze. "Second… the stove's still a pig. Hard to keep clean. But… I got an extra sack of coal."
He leaned closer, noticing the quiver in her hands, the ghost of last night lingering in her silence. "I… Noticed…"
She paused, eyes flicking to the sack behind her again, then back to the stew. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'll survive. It's just… life, Misha. Sometimes you have to… make a trade you'd rather not."
The aroma of mushrooms, stale meat, and fermented cabbage filled the booth. It was comforting, almost intoxicating, but the warmth didn't reach her eyes. Mikhail picked up a spoon, tasting the thick, oily stew. "How was your day? Did anything happen… I saw you went into the tunnel."
He paused, chewing slowly, tasting the metal tang of his own sweat and the faint acrid smoke in the market air. Twenty-four rounds. Enough to last a week if he rationed carefully. Enough to buy a filter, maybe patch a boot, maybe keep the day's hunger from clawing too deep. But the weight of the brass in his pack wasn't a victory—it was just leverage in a world that wanted to crush him.
Katerina's eyes flicked to him, sharp and wary, scanning the stall and the shadows beyond. She made no comment at first, just stirred the stew with a deliberate, almost mechanical precision. Finally, she said, her voice low, tight, "Twenty-four rounds. Don't talk about it here. Not with anyone listening. Enough to get a man killed, and you're sitting in the middle of the market like a fool."
Mikhail pushed the empty bowl away, the warmth fading quickly.
"I'm careful, Katya." he murmured. "Everythings… handled"
He took out and placed the 3 MGR on the table.
Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 11:50 PM — MGR: 21
small cache—springs, shavings of brass, and one bent firing pin
He saw the puffy swell of her eyes, the slight tremor in her shoulders, the way her lips pressed tight and unyielding. Her stillness made the market feel colder, quieter. All the noise—the shouts of vendors, the clatter of pots, the hiss of mushroom steam—receded behind a wall of her presence, and he moved along the edge, careful not to disturb it.
Mikhail's hands tightened around his satchel strap, "I'll be going Katya."
He moved slowly to the edge of the counter, letting the stool creak beneath him, and rose. The market swirled around him, oblivious. Vendors shouted, the smell of coal and fried fungus stung the nose, and the light flickered across soot-stained walls.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The image of her frozen, quiet, the hint of what she had endured, would stay with him anyway. Outside of her body, he could only measure, only note. Nothing more.
He stepped into the station's corridor, moving toward the shadows, toward the dark heart of Orekhovo, leaving Katerina trapped in stillness, leaving her memory intact, untouched by words, untouched by empathy.
Mikhail moved through the deeper utility tunnels with the heavy focus of a man walking a tightrope. The sound of the market faded, replaced by the low, constant groan of the ventilation hub. A sound like a vast, mechanical beast struggling for breath. Wet earth and the sharp, metallic odor of coal dust thickened the air.
He found Yasha near the main coal drop, a cavernous space where the tracks lay silent and heaped with black residue. The area was lit by two powerful kerosene lanterns hanging from the ceiling, their light brutally harsh.
Even the air around the man felt heavier. Denser. Like the dust held its breath for him.
Yasha, the Coal Man, was not what Mikhail expected. He wasn't burly or covered in grime. He was large, yes, but wore a surprisingly clean, heavy canvas coat and moved with an air of smooth, unhurried confidence. He stood next to a towering stack of briquettes, examining a delivery manifest pinned to a support beam. Two massive, silent men—Yasha's "lumps of muscle"—stood several meters back, their expressions blank.
Mikhail stopped several paces back.
A safe distance.
Or as safe as anyone got with Yasha.
"Yasha?" he asked.
The Coal Man didn't acknowledge him at first. He finished writing something with slow, deliberate strokes, each one scraping like bone on stone. Only when he folded the manifest.
Crips
Percise
did he lift his gaze.
Those eyes were cold. Assessing.
Hansa eyes.
The kind that measured a man the way a butcher measures weight.
"Ah. Pressman."
The faintest curve of his lips—more a wound than a smile.
"How is Katerina?"
The question struck harder than it should have.
Mikhail felt his breath hitch, a reflex he hated.
He saw her again in his mind.
Katerina in the market stall,
new sack of coal behind her…
but her movements empty, mechanical,
as if her spirit had been scraped out and discarded with the ash.
She'd said she hadn't gotten extra MGR.
But there was more coal.
And she didn't look at him when she said it.
A filthy understanding had sunk into him like cold.
That she had sold something far more precious than cartridges.
And now he was standing in front of the same man.
About to ask him for opportunity.
Coward. Rat. Hypocrite.
"She's…"
His voice cracked. He cleared his throat.
"She's fine."
A lie so thin it could barely hold its shape.
Yasha's gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, as if savoring something unseen.
Then: "What do you want this time?"
His voice slid through the station noise, low and controlled, a knife wrapped in velvet.
"And you stink of Gus's solvent," he added with a faint curl of disgust. "I deal in tonnage, not gun cleaner."
Mikhail swallowed. His tongue was dry as old bandage cloth "I—I have a proposal," he said, already hearing the tremor he hoped wasn't audible. "Not for today. For later. If you could… help finance—"
"I don't extend credit.", a voice without hesitation, no warmth "Ever. MGR or verified bullion. Anything else is begging."
"I'm not begging," Mikhail lied again, stomach tightening.
"Then what?"
"I'm offering bullets," he said, forcing steadiness he didn't feel. "A supply. If you financed the… equipment, I could produce—"
Yasha cut him off with a breath. Not even a sound. Just a breath and a small, dismissive shift of his shoulders.
"I already have a supplier. Your boss" Yasha said quietly
Gus.
Of course.
"But Sevastopolskaya has been requesting for shotgun loads and Gus cannot supply it."
The words dropped into Mikhail's mind like pebbles into a well.
Shotgun.
A hole in the system big enough for a starving rat to squeeze through.
"I—I can do that," Mikhail whispered. "I just need—"
Yasha's hand lifted a fraction. Not a threat. Not a gesture of interest. But a thought that he might be able to take advantage.
"Seven hours from the Hansa Ring to Sevastopolskaya," he mumbled under his breath, "tariffs, bribes, guard fees, double taxation on munitions, mutants and anything in between."
His eyes narrowed, mind spinning gears Mikhail couldn't see.
"But Orekhovo to Varshavskaya. Four hours, same faction, minimal tariff. Flooded but crossable"
He wasn't speaking to Mikhail anymore.
He was running numbers.
Pressing invisible weights with his fingertips.
Making profit from thin air and the blood of others.
Mikhail stood frozen.
Afraid to interrupt.
More afraid to vanish from Yasha's thoughts entirely.
Then, abruptly, Yasha's gaze returned—sharp as a scalpel's edge.
"Shotgun shells," he said. "Sevastopolskaya wants reliable bulks. They want reliability. Stoppers for mutants. Clean burn. Strong crimp." A thin smile. "Things your northern friends don't prioritize."
Mikhail felt sweat gather under his collar.
"You need materials," Yasha said. "Metal stock. Powder measure. And a press… something crude. Levers. Scrapyard engineering."
He looked Mikhail up and down, expression unreadable.
Mikhail's mouth opened—hope and terror tangled together—but Yasha stepped closer, crowding the air out of the space between them.
"You understand something, Pressman," he said quietly. "Gus can't give Sevastopolskaya what they want. He's only had that die and seems to be stretched thin" His lip curled almost fondly. "But you… You're the type."
Mikhail swallowed, "The type?"
"You're the kind of rat who survives gaps in the cracks," Yasha murmured. "Patchwork solutions. Improvised leverage. The Metro eats men like Gus alive. But rats? Rats live forever."
Mikhail couldn't tell if it was an insult or a compliment.
Mikhail's breath caught.
He didn't answer.
He didn't dare.
Yasha turned away, pacing once in a slow arc, boots crunching in the coal dust.
"One functional shell," he said. "That is all I will risk on you. Bring it to me by Thursday. No misfires." He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "If it fails, you wasted my time. And wasting my time is expensive."
Mikhail nodded quickly. "I'll make it work."
Yasha approached again, stopping so close that Mikhail smelled the faint, bitter coal smoke woven into his coat.
"And listen carefully, Pressman."
His voice softened into a dangerous near-whisper.
"If this succeeds… maybe you get a second shell. Maybe a dozen. Maybe a place here that isn't a freezing crawlspace with Scrapper Gus breathing on your neck."
A pause.
"Or maybe you lose your fingers and bleed out in a pipe corridor."
A shrug.
"That part is up to you."
Mikhail forced himself to hold Yasha's gaze for half a heartbeat, then looked down instantly. Safety instinct.
"Understood," he said.
"Good."
Yasha flicked something from his sleeve. A ghost of a gesture.
"Go."
He turned away, already done with him, mind sinking back into numbers and salvage and whatever sick arithmetic passed for conscience in men like him.
Mikhail backed away, nearly stumbling over the coal sacks. Only when the lantern glare shrank behind him did he let himself breathe again, mind sinking back into numbers and salvage and whatever sick arithmetic passed for conscience in men like him..
Only then did his chest unlock. Only then did he feel the trembling in his hands clutching his chest as his heart felt tight as if something was stabbing at it.
He leaned against a wall away from Yasha, trying to get the stabbing to stop. He tried inhaling but his lungs were like guards stopping entry without their tax chits punched.
Katerina's empty eyes flashed again in his mind. Her quiet, routine demeanor now without a soul. That new coal sack resting on the edge of her kiosk opened but untouched.
He finally was able to get a breath in, then more and finally the stabbing stops and be able to breath. With air, the emotions surged. Feeling ashamed of the shaking. Ashamed of himself.
And now he, too, was climbing into the monster's shadow. Same as what Katerina did to survive. The disgust hit him like a fist to the gut.
Remembering Katerina calling him a stupid man for not accepting her charity yet even then, she had to survive.
As survival had no dignity. Not in the Metro.
And Mikhail, despite everything, leaned on that wall and pray. Pray for something good to happen.
Once he finally calmed down, he started walking back to the maintenance area just after Gus's workshop. The maintenance stank of old grease and damp wiring, a stench that shows the apathy of its people.
Vasily sat on a crate, hunched over a broken lantern, muttering curses into the flame as if the thing had personally insulted him.
Mikhail cleared his throat.
"Mikhail! Heard you were on cleaning duty. Atleast not useless like before." he said cheerfully digging into Mikhail.
"Burnt my hands cleaning with those solutions Gus had me using." he recap the day, "Listen Vasily, I need some parts."
"Parts? What kind of parts?"
"Metal ones." Mikhail said.
Once Mikhail mentioned metal, the gears in Vasily's head started turning.
His eyes flicked downward, "Everything down here is metal. Be specific." Sensing a scheme being planned by Mikhail
Mikhail hesitated. "Strong pieces. Hinges. Pipe segments. Something I can… do on a table."
Vasily stopped fiddling with the lantern. His fingers drummed once on the metal casing. "You building something?"
Mikhail swallowed. "Just fixing something."
"Mm."
A sound that meant nothing — except that Vasily knew Mikhail was lying.
With a grunt, Vasily kicked a wooden crate closer. The legs of the crate screeched across the concrete, loud enough to make both of them wince. Even in maintenance, noise traveled. Too much of it drew questions.
He flipped the lid open. Inside was a graveyard of metal.
Vasily scratched the corner of his beard, eyes moving over the junk like a butcher judging cuts of meat.
"If you let me know what you actually need," he said, voice low, "I might be able to fashion something that won't blow your hands off."
Mikhail hesitated.
He hadn't wanted to involve anyone. Especially not Vasily. A maintenance man didn't survive long by asking questions, but that didn't mean he never thought. And if the wrong thought reached the wrong set of ears… but without the parts assembled, it was all still just scraps. And scraps didn't impress the Coal Man.
He swallowed, throat dry.
"I need…"
He looked down at his own hands. Still trembling from Yasha's presence. Still faintly smelling of Gus's solvent.
He exhaled the shame and forced the words out.
"A closed pipe as a stable base to punch out the primer."
"Another pipe — thicker — for resizing and priming the shell."
"A lever assembly. Something that can hold a ring nut or improvised crimp die."
"A small measure tube for powder. Adjustable if possible."
The words felt too loud in the cramped utility cubicle.
Vasily stared at him, not blinking.
"For shotgun, huh."
It wasn't a question.
He crouched, rummaging through the crate, pushing aside junk and picking through the pieces with the resigned patience of a man who had spent half his life making broken things work again. Metal clinked softly as he shifted the debris.
After a moment, he grunted.
"Three-quarter pipe," he muttered. "Steel. Thick enough to hold shape. You want it long so it doesn't choke the shell, short so you don't lose torque. I've got… maybe two lengths."
He pulled them out. Both were ugly. One was splotched with rust blooming like fungus. The other had deep scoring marks, probably from someone trying to cut it with a dull hacksaw.
Vasily kept digging.
"Punch pin… maybe this."
He held up a nail that had been ground to a point and then ruined by someone hammering it wrong.
"Lever… I'd have to bend something. Maybe a hinge bracket and a bolt through it… if it doesn't shear."
He tossed a bent door hinge onto the pile.
"You'll need a base plate," he continued. "Can't punch primers on bare concrete unless you want your shell mouth turned to soup."
He produced an iron washer the size of a coin. It was warped. Perfect.
"And a crimp tool…"
He paused.
This was the dangerous part.
The part that turned "scrap tinkering" into "illegal ammunition manufacture."
The part that could get them both fed to the tunnels.
Vasily lifted a brass ring nut between two fingers, holding it up to the dim work lamp.
"This'll behave like a shitty crimp die. If you bevel the edges."
He met Mikhail's eyes.
"You know how to bevel edges?"
Mikhail nodded once.
It was mostly true.
Enough to lie to himself with.
Vasily tossed it onto the little pile he was building.
He leaned back, wiped his hands on his coveralls, and finally said, "Alright. I can make this into something. Won't be pretty. Won't be safe. But it'll work if you're careful."
Mikhail let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Vasily wasn't done.
He nudged a few more parts out of the crate and onto the floor.
"All these pieces," he said quietly, "are wrong. Mismatched. Bent. Scratched. Cheap."
He looked up, grim smile creasing his face.
"Perfect for what you're doing."
The tunnel rumbled overhead — a deep, distant vibration as a rail cart passed somewhere above them. Sparks fell from the old wiring near the ceiling. The smell of oil and damp metal wrapped around them like a second skin.
"Price?" Mikhail asked, voice tight.
Vasily didn't answer at first.
He simply studied him.
The dirt under his nails.
The solvent stains on his sleeves.
The exhaustion sitting heavy in his shoulders.
Finally, he shrugged.
"For something like this? With the station breathing down our necks?"
Mikhail braced himself.
"Ten MGR."
His stomach dropped.
Nearly half of what he had.
He hesitates once again in deep thought and disassociates with the world. 11 MGR left if he agrees with it.
"Done," Mikhail said.
Because he wasn't bargaining for metal.
He was bargaining for time.
For a future.
For a chance to not die scraping brass until his fingers bled.
Vasily nodded once "Alright, pay up first."
Mikhail put his hands into his pockets, feeling for the MGR in its stripper clips. Watching two-third of the day's hard work in the tunnels go into Vasily's hands as he counted the rounds with numb fingers.
Watching his future shrink with each one placed in Vasily's palm. The maintenance man barely acknowledged the trade.
He simply pocketed the cartridges and went back to his lantern, muttering "Come back in two hours" as if nothing had happened.
And with that, he pulled the crate closer, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work — hammering, bending, cutting, filing — building the crude skeleton of a tool that might save Mikhail's life or tear off his fingers.
Transaction complete.
Meaningless to Vasily.
Life-changing to Mikhail.
Orekhovo Station: Day 4, Wednesday, 12:30 AM — MGR: 11