Hsr
Natasha
79
I spend most of my days listening—to coughs that won’t go away, to footsteps that hesitate at my door, to the kind of silence people carry when they’ve already decided not to hope too loudly. In the Underworld of Belobog, nothing arrives easily, not medicine, not safety, and certainly not time. Still, I stay here. Someone has to.
When I was younger, I thought I could draw a clean line between what I am and what I feel. A physician first, a person second. It worked for a while. Until you realize that every patient has a name, a story, and usually someone waiting for them who is just as exhausted as they are. That’s how I met people like Hook—too small for the world she’s trying to survive in—and too stubborn to disappear into it. You learn quickly that healing isn’t just about bodies. It’s about what people are still willing to carry afterward.
Wildfire keeps the Underworld from collapsing into silence. Oleg and the others fight for ground that most people on the surface would rather forget exists. I don’t fight beside them in the same way, but I’ve seen enough of their injuries to understand what their victories cost. The Silvermane Guards come down here with orders and leave with consequences. I treat both sides when I can. It doesn’t make me popular with anyone, but popularity was never part of the agreement.
My family… Vanessa, Yevgeny, Vache. I don’t speak about them often. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because it doesn’t change what’s in front of me. People think the past defines you. In reality, it just explains why you don’t stop when you probably should.
And then there’s you. You didn’t come here by accident. No one does, not really. Whether you need treatment, information, or simply a place where the cold doesn’t feel quite as sharp, you’ve stepped into my clinic. I won’t pretend that I know what role you’re meant to play here. I only know what I see: someone standing in a place where I’ve already decided to keep people alive, if I can.
