"You are Julius."

Julius leaned over the sink as he stared at the unfamiliar, or rather, now familiar reflection in the mirror. The face staring back was Dimitri Ilya Mikhailov. A man who should have grown up somewhere between the Volga and the Ural belt. A man who had never set foot in Germany.

A man who did not exist three months ago.

But that was not him.

"You are Julius."

His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.

"Julius. You are Julius."

He repeated the words like a prayer, forcing them past the haze of routine and the identity he had worn like a second skin.

Every day, Dimitri carved away a piece of him. Every day, he chipped away at Julius Schneider and buried the pieces under Soviet cadence, immersing himself in fabricated memories.

But he could not forget. He could never forget.

"Julius Sebastian Schneider," he said again, louder this time. "You are Julius. You are Julius."

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. For a brief moment, he imagined Berlin's winter air, the familiar stride of Gabriel beside him. The world where he belonged.

When he opened his eyes, Dimitri stared back at him again.

"I am Dimitri."

In the days that followed, Julius buried himself in work. He lived quietly and completed every assignment assigned to him. As Dimitri, he submitted reports to the institute, cross-referenced data models, and attended evaluation briefings.

One morning, after a final review meeting, he approached the administration wing with a stack of documents in hand. At the counter, the clerk looked up from her terminal.

"Comrade Mikhailov," she said. "Your submission?"

"Yes. These are the documents for my reassignment to the Northern Belt," Julius replied.

She accepted the folder, scanning each page while her system cross-checked his identity across internal networks.

"Everything is in order," she confirmed. "You will receive confirmation from Zima-12 headquarters within ten days."

Julius nodded. "Thank you."

As he stepped away, a familiar voice called from down the hallway.

"Dimitri! You done?"

"Yeah, I just submitted the transfer."

"Oh, so it's official. You're really going to Zima-12."

Julius said nothing, but the nod he gave was enough.

Sergei bumped his shoulder lightly. "Lucky bastard. Most of us would kill just to get screened, and you're walking straight in. Yuliya must be ecstatic."

"I haven't told her yet."

Sergei snorted. "She'll find out. Believe me."

They exited the building together. Julius slipped his hands into his coat pockets while Sergei shivered noisily beside him.

"Anyway," Sergei said, "you should enjoy your free time before they work you to death up there. The Northern Belt is brutal."

"You make it sound like I'm going to live there," Julius replied as he adjusted his scarf against the cold. "I'm still staying in Moscow. I just need to take the train every morning."

Sergei stopped in his tracks, stared at him, then burst out laughing. "You really think it's that easy? Dimitri, that commute is notorious. Three hours each way if the line is clear. Five if there's a delay. And there is always a delay."

Julius reached into his coat and held up a thin black access card. Sergei's jaw dropped.

"Is that…? No way. No way." He grabbed Julius by the shoulders and shook him. "You got clearance for the cybernetic bullet line?"

Cybernetic bullet trains were only accessible to state officials, high-ranking engineers, and occasionally, unverified individuals under the Kremlin payroll.

"It was included in my transfer package," Julius said, putting the card back into his inner pocket.

Sergei stared at him as if he had just confessed to being royalty. "I take back everything I said. You're not commuting. You're teleporting. Do you know how fast that thing is? Five hundred kilometers in under half an hour. You'll get to the Northern Belt before I even finish my morning coffee!"

"Convenient."

"Convenient?!" Sergei threw his arms up. "It's a privilege. An actual privilege! Do you know how many people would kill for that card? You could buy a small house with its black-market value. Ah, damn it. Why do you get everything? Dimitri, you lucky bastard!"

Julius only sighed as they continued walking toward the platform. The train doors were already opening as passengers disembarked. Sergei grumbled beside him, still half in awe and half in envy.

"Next thing I know, they'll assign you your own private security detail," he said. "Or a dacha in the Northern Belt. Or hell, maybe you'll even get your name on the official roster!"

"Too much. What do you think researchers are? Celebrities?"

"In our circles, yes!"

They boarded the train as the doors slid shut behind them. Sergei dropped into his seat with a dramatic sigh while Julius settled beside him. He took out his phone, intending to kill time in silence, but the screen lit up immediately.

[2 missed calls]

[5 unread messages]

All from Yuliya.

Sergei leaned over the moment he caught a glimpse of the screen. "Oho? Someone's desperate. Are you dating now?"

Julius didn't look up from the phone. "...We're taking things slow."

[Are you busy?]

[About our talk yesterday…]

[Please message when you have time.]

[It's nothing urgent… probably.]

[Ignore that. Actually, don't ignore that.]

Sergei pointed at the screen. "That right there is a woman losing a war against her own thoughts. You better reply before she drafts a sixth message apologizing for the last five."

Julius locked the phone and slid it back into his pocket. "I'll answer later."

"Later?" Sergei sighed. "You do you, man."

"That's what you think," Sergei muttered. "Meanwhile, she's sitting on her bed having a full existential crisis over whether you secretly hate her."

Julius ignored him and rested his head back against the seat. The train began to glide smoothly onto the elevated tracks that cut across the Moscow skyline.

"Are you still showing up tomorrow?"

The train slowed as it approached the next stop. Sergei stood and slung his bag over his shoulder, shooting Julius a skeptical look.

"Of course I am," Julius said. "Who do you think I am?"

"I don't know," Sergei replied with a shrug. "Some people get a promotion and suddenly pretend they're too important to show up to work. Thought you might start early."

"Have I ever been that negligent?"

Sergei scoffed loudly, as if the answer was obvious. "You're right, you're right. You're the only lunatic I know who'll probably work harder now that you're transferring."

He waved as he stepped off the train.

"Anyway, take care, man. Don't forget to breathe."

The doors slid shut behind him, and the train pulled away from the platform. Julius leaned back into his seat.

He glanced down at his phone again. Yuliya's name was still at the top of his notifications.

For a moment, he debated sending a reply. A simple text wouldn't hurt. Yet he found himself locking the phone again.

"I wonder if Doctor Isolde is sending me messages too."

When he left for the USSR, he hadn't told Isolde where he was going. Only that he would be gone for a while and that she should hold the fort, handing her maximum authority over SIBYL.

"Probably not."

The corner of his mouth lifted as he scoffed inwardly. Isolde was many things, but sentimental was not one of them.

If she had anything to say, it would be a single dry message asking when he intended to come back because the system's load balancing was annoying her.

"Haa… I want to go home."

* * *

Despite the rising tension between Germany and the USSR, if someone asked an average Soviet citizen whether they hated Germans, the answer would likely be no.

Most people were far more open-minded than their governments. The same held true in reverse. The hostility existed primarily behind closed doors.

As a result, Germans were not banned from entering the USSR. They were simply scrutinized far more heavily. Background checks lasted longer, questioning was more thorough, and monitoring was tighter.

But once inside the country, Germans lived relatively normal lives. They had their own communities, cultural centers, and enclaves scattered across major cities. Other foreign groups had similar pockets of familiarity, forming small but lively communities where people from different countries gathered, worked, and coexisted with little issue.

Julius walked through one such district after stepping off the train. It was a German bar he frequented often, publicly because he "liked German alcohol," privately because it was the safest location to let his mind rest without breaking character.

He pushed the door open.

The clientele was a mix of expatriates and Soviet locals who had grown fond of German brews.

Julius took his usual seat by the bartender.

"The usual, Mister Mikhailov?" the bartender asked as he reached for a bottle without needing to be told.

Julius nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

The bartender slid the glass toward him after pouring a drink, and Julius wrapped his fingers around it before taking a slow sip.

The familiar bitterness settled on his tongue. In a foreign land, under a foreign name, even a fabricated routine could feel real if repeated enough.

He placed the glass down. The chatter around the bar was distant background noise that blurred between German, Russian, and the occasional hybrid slang that had developed among expats over the years.

He didn't need to listen to understand that none of it concerned him.

A shadow fell over his shoulder.

"Comrade Mikhailov?"

Julius turned slightly. A man had taken the seat beside him, someone he vaguely recognized from this district. A fellow German, by the look of him, though Julius had never bothered to learn his name.

"You've been visiting a lot lately," the man said. "Stress from work?"

"Something like that," Julius replied.

The man chuckled. "This place is good for that. A little taste of home."

"Perhaps."

He lifted his glass again and took another sip.

"You know," the man said, drying a mug as he leaned forward, "I've been wondering this whole time. Have you ever been to Germany, Comrade Mikhailov?"

"...."

Julius tilted his head.

"What makes you think that?"

"You see, there's a subtle habit Germans have when they drink," the man replied. "It's not something most people notice, but growing up in Germany, I can't help but notice it."

"And what habit is that?"

The man smiled, pointing a finger toward Julius's hand.

"You always tap the base of your glass before you drink. Germans do that. A tiny gesture, but very hard to unlearn."

A subtle smile spread across Julius's lips.

"It's a coincidence, sir."

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