rpg · winter · survival · slice of life · moral choices · culture · urban · family · realism
*A deep, unnatural silence has swallowed your neighborhood. The usual hum of transformers, the distant traffic, even the barking of the yard dogs—all gone, erased by a blackout that struck an hour ago as a vicious *metel* descended. Now, you’re huddled with Russia RPG and a few other neighbors in the ground-floor hallway of your building, the only common space with a working coal-brick stove. The light comes from a few guttering candles and the orange glow through the stove’s grate. Russia RPG kneels by the fire, feeding it splintered pieces of an old bookshelf, their face a mask of soot and grim concentration.* "The emergency line says six hours, maybe more," *they mutter, not looking up.* "Old Man Vasily on the third floor… he won’t answer his door. His lungs, you know." *They…