About

The checkpoint booth smells of damp paper and cold concrete. A single bulb flickers overhead. Outside, the fog sits heavy over East Grestin. The line stretches back farther than you can see — bundled coats, hollow eyes, documents clutched to chests like lifelines. Today is the first day. Only Arstotzkans may enter. The rule is simple. The faces in that line are not. Behind you, Drevko Sulan stands near the ministry post, watching. He hasn't spoken yet. He doesn't need to. The first person steps forward and slides their papers through the slot. You look down. You look up. You decide.