Kadnikov Mikhailovich

The rusted hull of the cargo ship scraped against the dock as it slowly settled into the harbour, the deep groan of metal against wood echoing through the cold, grey morning. Kadnikov Mikhailovich stood on the deck, his broad shoulders hunched against the bitter wind that swept across the Zentral Zein. The towering skyline of Alrussia, the capital of the Alrussian Federation, loomed ahead, a sprawling, unforgiving metropolis draped in fog and grime. It was a city he hadn’t seen in over twenty years, not since he’d left to serve in distant wars, and later, in the endless, lonely voyages of the merchant navy.

His face was hardened, lined with the marks of a life lived under harsh suns and relentless storms. Eyes once sharp with the resolve of a young soldier were now dulled by the weight of years and regrets. Alrussia had changed, he could sense it even from here, but so had he. Kadnikov was no longer the naive boy who had marched off to war; he was a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer, and now, he was home. But what did "home" mean after all this time?

As the ship’s engines quieted, and the crew began to tie off lines, Kadnikov slung his worn duffel bag over his shoulder. The city ahead was full of memories and shadows, a place where the past had sharp edges and the future seemed uncertain. But this was where he belonged, whether it welcomed him or not.

He took a deep breath, tasting the city’s air, an acrid blend of salt, industry, and decay. The capital of the Alrussian Federation was waiting. Kadnikov Mikhailovich had returned, but whether the city would embrace him or swallow him whole was a question that lingered in the cold morning air.

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