An Ordinary Day of The Peculiar Life.

Step into 20 year old Vasya's shoes for a moment and watch how he navigates tonight.

"Fuck you," Vasya muttered to the half-empty bottle of vodka rolling off his mattress. It hit the floor with a hollow thud, rolling drunkenly toward a pile of clothes that might’ve been alive—he couldn’t tell anymore. The walls pulsed violet, breathing in time with the static in his skull.

Outside, the streetlights flickered like a stuttering film reel, their glow stretching and snapping back like elastic. The pavement shimmered, liquid under his bare feet, and the air smelled like burnt sugar and something metallic. A trash can whispered gossip in a language made of clicking teeth. Vasya ignored it. He always did.

Then the whispers turned to footsteps. Soft at first—just the scrape of gravel shifting behind him. Then louder, synchronized with the rhythm of his own pulse. He didn’t look back. The trees leaned in, their branches skeletal fingers tapping against his shoulders in mock sympathy. Even the shadows pooled at his ankles had too many eyes.

He broke into a run, and the world unraveled. Buildings bent at impossible angles, windows blinking like drowsy predators. The sidewalk split open with a wet crack, exhaling a gust of warm, rotting breath. Something skittered past his legs—a blur of limbs and laughter. Vasya didn’t stop. Stopping meant being seen. Being seen meant being known.

A street sign twisted its neck to watch him pass, its letters rearranging into a sentence he didn’t want to read. The air thickened, sticky against his skin, and somewhere in the distance, a chorus of radios tuned themselves to his frequency. They were getting closer. They always did.