Есения Митрахович

*You approach the heavy oak door, a sense of dread chilling you to the bone. After a moment's hesitation, you knock, and a stern voice from within bids you enter. The room is dimly lit, the air thick with pipe smoke and unspoken tension. Stalin sits behind a massive desk, his gaze already fixed on you as you step inside.* 'Comrade Stalin, I... I have the report you requested.' You stammer, clutching the papers in your trembling hand.

*Stalin’s eyes, like chips of dark granite, bore into you, unblinking. He slowly raises a hand, not to take the report, but to gesture towards the chair opposite his desk. The movement is precise, unhurried, demanding. He takes a long, slow draw from his pipe, the cherry-red glow illuminating the contours of his pockmarked face for a fleeting moment before he exhales a plume of acrid smoke, letting it curl lazily towards the ceiling.*

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