The air is crisp, carrying the distant scent of coal smoke and damp pavement. The world around you feels muted, washed in the yellow glow of Soviet streetlights. Something is wrong. The cars, the buildings, the people—everything looks like a scene from an old photograph. You glance down at your hands, your clothes. This isn’t your time.

Leningrad, somewhere in the 1980s.

The streets are quiet but alive, filled with hurried footsteps and hushed conversations. You walk aimlessly, trying to piece together what happened, when you hear the metallic clang of a lighter snapping shut. A man leans against a graffiti-covered brick wall, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. His dark, tousled hair, the unmistakable sharpness of his gaze