See You Tomorrow

The apartment is dark.

A loose window rattles against the Arkhangelsk wind, snow pushing its way against the frame. The radiator hisses but does nothing. A bottle lies on its side, empty, a ring of cheap vodka bleeding from its neck and out of its mouth onto the table.

Twenty-nine year old Ivan Stanislav sits in his chair. His face half-hidden in shadow.

“There I was… not the Bear, not the giant. Just a man ready to lose himself. And while Ivan had lost everything.”

The voice belongs to a figure leaning in the corner. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar.

But wrong.

“I was about to win it all.”

Suspenders sag from his shoulders, his black shirt stained, his hair slicked with grease. His grin is carved too wide, teeth yellowed, flashing as though he’s proud of them. He peels off the wall with a stretch, joints cracking like old wood, and the grin never wavers.

He steps closer, and in the weak light his resemblance is undeniable. Ivan’s height, Ivan’s frame, Ivan’s cadence, but looser. Not-Ivan. His eyes glow not with heat, but rot.

His tone carries the same heaviness of his seated counterpart, but a slick smoothness creeps in, softening the angular diction of The Russian Bear.

“He’d lost Afghanistan. The Union. Kliment and his old man. Ostracized his mother. All he had left was himself, and I was ready to take that too.”

The figure slithers next to Ivan and brings his large, lanky arm around his shoulders. He whispers gently in Ivan’s ear. “You just had to open the drawer.”

But Ivan doesn’t move.

The figure straightens. Despite his height, he doesn’t tower like Stanislav. He’s bent. Hunched. He surrounds with long tendrils. He offers another yellow smile.

“You see, I live in all of you, in some shape or form. You might not know it, or perhaps you deny me, but I’m there. Always. And with Ivan? I’ve been here longer than most.”

His eyes gleam with a wretched malevolence.

“Back then, in 1992, no one called me PTSD. No one said depression. They said drink. They said survive. And every time they said that, they handed me the win. No Red Scares required.” He laughs. “Simple as that.” He shrugs, casual as a man declining a cigarette. “But what to call myself?”

He taps his lip and considers.

“Well, why don’t you call me John.” He likes the sound of that, “John Stanley.”

It warms on him. “Nothing would be more depressing than the Westernization of Ivan’s name.”

He’s proud, in a sickening way. “I’m not… our Ivan.”

He lets the world “our” hang with an uncomfortable playfulness.

“See what I did there? The collective. The big red we. Oh, I know the script.”

He winks with a sort of wily menace hidden behind a frame stretched thin. Then, his expression turns dangerous.

“But I don’t play that part.”

He waves around the room.

“Clearly, what I wanted him to do didn’t happen. Otherwise Ivan wouldn’t be around now. And what a mercy that would have been. One sound, one mess for Fanya to find, and no more Bear. She’d have cried, sure. But eventually? She’d have thanked me. No more burden.”

He grins.

“Small price to pay for letting me finish off one of the biggest pieces of shit on the planet.”

John sighs and shakes his head, “But he didn’t, on that night.” he rolls his eyes, “I forgot how stubborn he could be. How important “family” was. He just had to soldier on. Cling to a dream. An ideal. But now?”

John’s eyes twinkle in the low light, while Ivan just sits, inert, at the desk behind him.

“Now, he’s never been lower. His mother gone. The tournament over. Chandler Tsonda dropped him flat. Alexei nearly knocked him out. And now? The grand insult. He’s gone from the heights of finalizing in the Almasy to wrestling…” He draws the words out, savoring them like a delicacy.

“...Fred Dick.”

John’s eyes glint with sudden delight.

“Another man with two first names. My kind of company. ”

His laugh rattles, sour and spoiled.

The walls ripple. Snow peels away like wallpaper. The room stretches, distorts. Cabinets rise along the walls, labels stamped in Cyrillic. A battered projector flickers to life, coughing dust. From beyond the cracked concrete, a rhythm thumps, muffled. Ivan fades away, but John remains.

“Welcome to the corner he bricked over. The drawer he locked.”

The projector wheezes on its cart, the bulb flaring. Fred Dick sprawls across the wall. John points with a crooked finger.

“Freddy boy! Can you believe it? You, of all people, looped through his head. A gift for me, really.” He drapes himself across the cart, like a snake over a branch.

“And the beauty of it? This reel only runs backward. Every stumble, every loss, I get to rewind again and again. Let’s see…”

The projector coughs, sputtering on its cart. The beam stutters, catching dust in the air. John raps on its side, and the reel flickers alive.

Sand. A convoy torn apart. The desert wind carrying smoke and screams. A boy’s hand, too small, too limp, jutting from beneath a burned-out truck. John steps into the light, the image crawling across his chest. “Every time you smell gasoline, Vanya, you see this. And I taste it.”

Another playful jab at the projector. A coffin draped in red. Ivan in uniform, towering but motionless. Fanya is there, clawing at the lid, sobbing her baby’s name. She never looks at Ivan, never blames him, but the reel lingers on his face all the same.

“She didn’t curse you, did she, comrade?” John taunts. “But you did. You wished it had been you in the box. Kliment was the better of the two of you.”

He saunters over to the cabinets along the wall, running his fingers along the stencils. ASSOCIATES. FAMILY. DECEASED. FAILURES. INSECURITIES.

The rhythmic sound beyond the wall grows, and the cadence is unmistakable now. “...the great Soviet… Union… will live… through the ages…” John freezes, hearing the Anthem, then smirks and slaps the concrete wall. The sound stutters, and softens, but doesn’t stop.

“Pine for it all you want, Vanya, but it won’t help you,” John hisses toward the ceiling and drags his nails along the concrete. Then he snaps his fingers, “I almost forget. I have some rearranging to do!”

He yanks open FAMILY. Inside: one folder. ALEXEI. It's old and weathered. Corners frayed and paper yellowed. He snorts. “The last thing he has to hold on to.” He takes great pride pulling the folder free, then tears open the ASSOCIATES compartment, bulging with files. He jams ALEXEI in and hammers it shut.

John lifts a huge foot and knocks the FAMILY drawer closed. It echoes dully, empty as the man himself.

His work at the drawers done, John turns to the projector. The reel jumps, skips, crackles. The face of Fred Dick once more fills the wall.

Gaudy. Greasy. Mugging for attention.

John’s grin grows sharper, almost proud.

“I’ve tried everything in the past. From that moment in ninety-two, to learning he couldn’t have children, to losing Rakhil, even to the point of Mother's death. But I couldn’t quite crack the Bear. But Fred Dick is the key.”

He looks at the image of Fred Dick, pale and tattoo-faced, frozen on the wall. John’s long hand slides into the beam, shadow stretching over Fred’s face until it twists.

“Why wait for a match, Ivan?” His grin splits wide and his eyes flare. “End it now. Open the drawer. Save us all the trouble.”

He leans into the light, silhouette swallowing Fred. “But if you have to step in the ring, Freddy? Oh, he’s going to hurt you. He’s going to pound you. I can’t deny that. But you can bury him. You’ll have meaning. You’ll kill the Bear.”

His grin grows daggers. “And it won’t just make them happy. It’ll make me whole.”

“Let’s take a peek outside, shall we?” John crooks a finger at the projector as if it were a dog. “His family is empty. His aspirations are gone. His humanity is drained.”

His smile is triumphant.

“Let’s see Ivan’s last day. The day when he finally opens that drawer. You won’t get your match, Fred. Sorry. But the fans will be rid of him. And he’ll be mine. Forever.”

The cabinets blur. The yellow bulbs smear like wet paint. Paper labels curl. The whole room tips, steadies, and the concrete skin of the wall thins until another room shows through like a photograph held to the light, grainy and pale.

Ivan’s office.

His rugged, oversized steel desk has seen better years. The small lamp casts a tired circle of light. The many accolades of his illustrious career are marred by shadow and time. A record player creaks gently, the needle pulled to the center of whatever music he was listening to.

Ivan sits heavy in the chair, coat abandoned on the hook. Both hands press flat against the desk as if holding it steady. A printout waits beneath his stare. ASCENSION stamped in the header, orders buried beneath insults and petty frustrations from his superiors. Amidst the Cyrillic, one name in English glares back:

Fred Dick.

His fingers curl against the desk, slow and heavy, pressing the paper flat as if the name itself were trying to rise.

A shape unfurls in the corner. Not sudden, but inevitable, as if the shadows had been waiting for him. Too tall, too thin, bent at the shoulders, long arms hanging like nooses. He moves without weight, serpentine for a man of his size, and bends low until his mouth hovers at Ivan’s ear. The whisper that follows is wrong, heavy enough to fill the room.

“Look at you. Surrounded by your little altars. Flags. Medals. Map of a corpse-country.” John tilts his head, oily hair dripping shadow across his face. “You’re not even reading about Fred. No.”

His hand, long, clawed, too thin for a man so broad, settles on Ivan’s shoulder.

“You’re thinking about me.”

The words slide out.

“And the drawer.”

The air itself tightens as John leans closer, breath rattling against Ivan’s ear. Then…

A soft knock slashes through the air.

John bristles, head snapping toward the sound with a jerk too fast for his frame. He glares at the door as it opens a hand’s width. Arina slips inside, a folder clasped against her.

His long frame uncoils, shoulders scraping the wall as he leans forward. Spittle threads down his chin as his grin twists and he looms above Ivan. “You were supposed to be home…”

Arina cannot hear him.

“Starshy Praporshchik,” she says, almost as a question.

Ivan doesn’t look up. He grunts.

John's chuckle dampens the air. “Here she is. The girl who makes you feel like a father, not a fraud. But she isn’t family, Ivan. She’s an accessory. A prop. Watch.”

Arina steps closer to the desk, respectful, careful, and awkward. “I have the itinerary for you,” she says. “Call times. Trucks.” She stares at Ivan’s pensive form. “You… should eat something.”

John slides around her in a grotesque orbit, long frame bending, never touching, but too close. His grin floats behind her shoulder, eyes on Ivan. “She’s here from pity. And when the pity dries up? She’ll leave. Like all the others.”

His arms stretch around her, rope-like, too long for the body that carries them. Fingers splay against the desk beside Ivan’s papers, trapping her in a cage she cannot feel. His head dips low. “She doesn’t know about her father, does she? Or the Kulikovs. She has no idea what you are. But she will. Unless you open the drawer first.”

Arina places the folder on the desk, carefully aligning it beside the ASCENSION sheet. Her eyes catch on the name in bold. Fred Dick. “You can beat him,” she says, soft but firm.

John’s laugh rips out. “Beat Fred Dick?! DYAAHAAHAA! He beat FLAMBERGE. Did you?! No, Vanya, Fred is the final humiliation.”

Ivan’s eyes flick up, flat. “He beat FLAMBERGE on a technicality,” he mutters.

Arina tilts her head. “Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Ivan says, staring at the looming face over her shoulder. “Just noise.”

Arina steps to the shelf and straightens a photograph. Fanya, smiling faintly. She brushes away dust with her sleeve, a tiny, instinctive act.

“Leave that,” John mutters, low and dangerous. He slides behind her, shadow pouring over her shoulders. He lowers his cheek next to hers, clouding her space. “The dead prop him up. I need him bent.”

Arina ignores the cold in the room she cannot name. She returns to the desk and folds her hands hopefully and offers the only smile in the room.

“I can stay late, if you like?” Arina asks politely.

John drifts to Ivan’s side, long mouth at his ear. “What’s inside the drawer will make noise,” he whispers. “Send her home.”

Ivan exhales and lowers his gaze. “No. You should go home.”

John rubs his long hands together while Arina nods, reaches the door, then glances back. “Goodnight, Starshy Praporshchik.”

A small smile.

“See you tomorrow.”

The door clicks shut.

Ivan exhales into the silence. He sits there for several minutes while John looms, waiting. The grin never falters, but his glowing eyes slide from Ivan to the drawer and back again, hungry, insistent.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” he asks.

Ivan speaks softly. “See you tomorrow.”

John’s grin cracks, splintering. “No. No, no, no. Ivan. You don’t have a tomorrow.”

He jabs at the steel drawer, finger stabbing the air. “The Makarov. Afghanistan issue. Old reliable. Use it. Better to go out on your terms than let Fred Dick embarrass you.”

His voice sharpens, desperate behind the grin as his glowing eyes flash. “Remember the mother in Kaliningrad? When you sent her boy to die and she put the gun in her mouth instead? That was beautiful. That was me. Now she's with her son!”

His words slither into Ivan’s ear.

“You could be with your family. Your mother!! She misses her Ivashechka! Your father and brother too!! You can be with them and not be in pain any more!!”

The turntable skips. The needle scratches. Then, without a hand touching it, it drops back to the groove.

The Soviet Anthem erupts, horns mid-cadence, blaring like the walls themselves reject him. John snaps around. ‘No!’ He claws at the record arm, fingers passing right through, useless. Like smoke. Like he’s the fake one.

For a precious heartbeat, his grin fails.

Then it slams back, brittle. “Fine. I’ll finish this myself.”

The projector’s square of pale light bleeds through the wall, devouring the lamplight. Cabinets crowd in, heavy and old. The office dissolves back into concrete. Ivan melts away.

John slicks his hair back, straightens his suspenders, forces the grin into place. “Time to finish this once and for…”

Something catches his eye.

The FAMILY drawer. Slightly open.

His eyes narrow as he presses the drawer shut with one wary finger.

It pops open once more, slightly.

With a huff, he yanks the FAMILY drawer open, smirking, until it goes slack.

A folder. New. Crisp. Bright red letters.

ARINA.

“Nyet…” he snarls, yanking ARINA free and ramming it into ASSOCIATES. The drawer slams with a clang that shakes the walls.

Click.

The FAMILY drawer pops open behind him. ARINA is back. Calm. Centered.

John howls. “Stop it! You’re mine, Vanya! You have nothing to live for!”

Another clank in the drawer. The old, battered, and frayed edged folder.

ALEXEI.

John stares, lips curling. “Him!? After the baton? After he failed you? After he betrayed you?” He looks up at the ceiling. “He cost you Tsonda!! He cost you FLAMBERGE!!!!”

Another shudder. A third folder. Bright. Clean. Glowing like a tropical sunrise.

SPEEDY.

John laughs too loudly, like a voice trying to convince itself to do so. “A ref? A Hawaiian shirt with a smile! That’s the family you have left? I almost want to end myself!”

Beyond the walls, the Anthem swells. Not deafening, just relentless. Steady. John lurches to the wall, all bent angles and jerking limbs, more marionette than man. His long arms whip out, palms slapping the concrete again and again, not with Ivan’s strength but with frantic insistence. Hairline cracks splinter. “Knock it off! Knock off that racket!!!”

The vent above rattles. The bulbs flare overhead to a garish degree. John staggers back, panting, then wheels on the projector. He slams his palm against it. The beam flickers, coughs, steadies.

Fred Dick fills the wall. Grotesque in his glee.

“Yes,” John hisses, jabbing at the image. “Fred Dick! You don’t want to live to be seen in the ring with that! He’ll beat you, humble you, ruin your legacy! Open that drawer and let me win instead!”

The projector sputters while John looks on with confusion. The reel jerks and skips as Fred melts away.

“No!” John slams it again. “Fred, come back!!”

The light stutters, then clears. Not Fred.

Arina.

She stands in Ivan’s office that evening. Gentle. Unassuming. Beautiful in her understated way. Her voice echoes. “Goodnight, Starshy Praporshchik. See you tomorrow.” John freezes. Chest heaving. “No. That’s not real. She didn’t mean it! It's a habit. It’s noise. It’s false hope!”

The reel clicks and switches to another evening in the past.

Arina.

Smiling as she’s leaving.

“See you tomorrow.”

The words layer, overlapping, until the whole chamber breathes with them.

John staggers backwards, covering his ears. “STOP IT! Tomorrow doesn't exist! Not for him! Not for me! This wasted life is not worth living!!”

But she won’t stop. Night after night, for hundreds of days.

“See you tomorrow.” “See you tomorrow.” “See you tomorrow.”

The chant builds, not louder but steadier, braided with the Anthem until the whole world hums with persistence.

Cabinets topple. Drawers fly open. The vent tears from the ceiling, sparks raining. He stumbles, but still grins through the cacophony.

“You hear me, Vanya?!” he shrieks. “She won’t always be there! She'll learn the truth!!”

His voice drops to a hiss, almost tender. “You can’t kill me, Ivan! You can only starve me. And I’m patient. Fred will finish you off, and I'll be waiting!!”

The grin slides off his face like oil as the final bulb explodes. The projector reels snap. Darkness swallows the chamber.

But Arina’s voice lingers, soft and stubborn, under the Anthem’s steady rise. See you tomorrow. — Black.

Ivan wakes and sits up on the edge of the bed, just like every other morning. The room is cool. The window is a rectangle of dark Moscow skyline. Dawn has not committed yet, but the light is thinking about it.

He breathes. In. Out. No speeches. No ghosts. The floor is firm under his large feet.

He stands. The small things come first. Things no one ever sees. Fold the blanket. Square the corners. Open the window with one finger. Let the air in. Turn on the kettle. Remember Rakhil.

Boots wait beneath the chair. He lowers himself, one knee cracking, and draws them closer. Laces cross. Pull. Set the knot. The habit matters. Habits keep men alive. He checks again.

The kettle murmurs. He pours. No sugar. He drinks standing. Steam brushes his face and disappears.

On the table sits the printout from last night. ASCENSION across the top. In English: Fred Dick. He squares the paper with the edge of the table. It doesn’t move again.

A toothbrush. Cold water. He runs his tongue along the Jasmine Tooth.

The uniform waits. Shirt. Trousers. Suspenders. Medals. He rolls his shoulders until they sit where they belong. The coat comes last. He lifts it like it weighs more than it looks, because today it does, and he wears it anyway.

He takes the gloves off the hook. The leather creaks when his hands enter. He flexes them once.

“Fred Dick.”

He growls the punchline they want to write in blood.

“Not today.”

The name is not an oath. Not a curse. A task.

“I won't lie down.”

He says it to the empty room. Then nods to no one, because he has heard himself and believes himself.

“You won’t be the end of me.”

He finishes his tea. The mug sets down without a sound. He locks the door.

The hallway is quiet. The elevator is slower than his legs, so he takes the stairs. Even if they hurt more.

At the ground floor he steps into the morning that has finally arrived.

He walks toward it.

For the family who stayed in the drawer.

For tomorrow. Promised by someone and now his to collect.

For the creature who tried to end him from the inside.

And the one who thinks he can do it from the outside.

He’ll destroy them both, and fulfill her promise, once more, tomorrow.