Chapter 1:

6:35 AM, the alarm clock rings. [Why do I need to get up? I don't want to go anywhere. I'm sick of everything.]

6:40 AM. The protagonist opened his eyes and sat up in bed. His eyes were downcast, and his head was half-empty: it held little more than the desire to sleep. But desires didn't mean the absence of obligations. [...]

6:43 AM. He moved toward the refrigerator. Inside sat a pot of borscht and sandwich fillings. [When the borscht runs out, I'll have to cook again. Sick of it. Maybe make lagman instead of borscht? But beef prices are discouraging...] Borscht was chosen for breakfast.

The bowl was filled and sent to be reheated. Meanwhile, his bladder dutifully sent him to the bathroom — though it didn't take long, maybe five minutes.

6:50 AM. He began consuming nutrients by way of mouth. The taste was satisfactory, yet somehow sticky, stripped of any emotion.

He stopped watching the time. Simply washed the dishes and dressed to go out. His feet clung to the ground the same way the borscht clung to his tongue.

The commute to work was neither sad nor joyful. In spring it was scenic, in winter — cold. On Monday, someone had run over a hedgehog, and no one had any plans to clean up its innards. Funny — how was he any different from those innards?

Well, purely from a biological standpoint — obviously he was different. But emotionally? He wasn't sure.

The mud on the road gave way to asphalt. Soon the rows of shops would begin. But for now he was simply walking.

He began approaching the office. Strange: though physically he was drawing closer, mentally he was at the sea. Yet the grey sky above the equally grey box on the ground remained the same.

He passed through the checkpoint, pressing his own badge. [I wonder what's the point of this useless red tape? They don't even search me. What's actually stopping me from bringing a gun in here and shooting everyone to hell?]

His office was unchanged — an ordinary, tidy office. The clock read 8:25 AM; he was late. But what did he care? As if his papers could sprout wings and fly away. It would be nice if that could actually happen.

He nonetheless began the routine sorting of documents. A local government body had submitted for review a resolution on introducing a tax on imported foreign foodstuffs. Some specimen had concluded that a lawsuit against a corporation was legally possible — which was technically true, but in practice pure nonsense.

Some elderly woman had been swindled out of a large sum by internet fraudsters. Someone had dismembered somebody and dumped the carved-up body in a lake.

Speaking of cuts — when was his lunch break? 9:39 AM, and lunch was from 12 to 1. He felt dejected. But for the sake of his kidneys' health he drank some water — about half a litre.

The documents kept getting sorted, the number of idiots stayed the same, and lunch was just as far away. The liquid, however, was being absorbed quite well — and so once again there was a need to visit the bathroom.

10:42 AM. He relieved himself. [Pleasant.] At least something pleasant amid the endless reports. Work, however, continued.

— Yuri Ivanovich. Report to office 34.

The voice was irritating, full of undisguised arrogance. But the voice belonged to his employer, and in this city this particular job was a perfect fit. So instead of a shouting match, Yuri had to play the part of a humble subordinate.

In any case, he simply walked. The clock walked too — it read 11:36 AM. He wondered: if he died, would the clock just show the time anyway? A stupid question: obviously the clock couldn't care less whether someone was dead or alive. It was created solely to show the time — and diligently fulfilled its purpose. Unlike Yuri. Yuri didn't know what his purpose was. And frankly, saw no point in fulfilling it.

— I called you here to consult on a matter.

Yuri nodded. He had no desire to spend words.

— An acquaintance of mine has a couple of problems with a certain useless cargo. He came to me asking me to "take care of it." So I'm counting on you to do what needs to be done.

Yuri held up three fingers.

— Three thousand dollars? I'm glad you know your worth. You'll receive it in cash after signing the relevant documents.

Yuri silently made his way back to his office. He had paperwork to prepare and signatures to put on a stack of papers. First — the delivery note, then the bill of lading. The invoice for the supplied goods had to be drawn up so that the absurdly high price didn't seem absurd. A few more minor papers — for added credibility.

Faith in humanity had long since died in Yuri, as had the desire to do anything at all. But that didn't mean he was free from his obligations. He would still get up and go to work, still take part in dubious activity, still hope that something would change — though nothing would change. An annoying, but profitable life: five working days, two days off, paid vacation included.

2:05 PM. Yuri had missed his lunch break, which upset him, and he decided to eat in his office. The sandwiches were just as good as ever.

2:37 PM.

3:00 PM.

3…

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Time was up. The workday was over; it was time to go home. He moved his body on autopilot. But when his hand touched the door handle, he felt a strange tremor with hints of fear. Odd enough, yet he didn't feel the need to pay it even the slightest attention. His plans involved stuffing himself with chicken and pepperoni rolls, not hanging around the office.

Opening the door, he saw before him a soulless corridor. In the literal sense. As if any hint of life was so out of place that the walls had bleached it out completely, leaving behind only grey hues and a sense of mustiness. It was so quiet that his own heartbeat sounded loud — echoing in his ears.

— Shit.

A sufficiently laconic expression of his emotions. He didn't even suspect that something alien was watching him from right beneath the walls and was about to feast on his flesh.

— Wait. What did you just say?!

5:13 PM. Yuri Ivanov was killed by an anomaly classified as "The Reflection." Further information requires Level 3 clearance. Research supervisor: [██████].

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Nine in the morning, the fifth day, the third month. Yuri was resurrected in the Looking Glass.

— [OH GO F—]—