In 2014, when I was fifteen, everything started going to hell. A neighboring country decided it had the right to take what was ours and invaded. The war began—first quiet, then loud—and that was the first stone that triggered the avalanche. I heard on the radio about China chasing ships in some sea, about Iran and Saudi Arabia launching missiles at each other, about Africa fighting over water. Everyone thought America or China had it under control, that they’d sort it out somehow. Yeah, right.


    Two years later, when it became clear no one was going to stop, people finally lost their minds and started throwing nukes. They destroyed everything they had without even thinking about what would be left. Those who didn’t burn wandered through the ruins, searching for anything—a piece of bread, a corner where the wind wouldn’t cut through. In my city, survivors started banding together, barricading themselves with debris. Everything beyond those broken walls became known as the Void.


    My story began on the night when it all turned to ash—we call it the Great Explosion. Late 2016. I was at home, on the Left Bank of Kyiv, sleeping in my room when the house suddenly shook. The first missile hit somewhere in the industrial zone nearby. The lights went out, the windows rattled, and a red glow flashed outside. I jumped out of bed and heard my mother scream—"Maksym!"—but we never made it to the basement. The second explosion, closer to the city center, finished the job—the ceiling collapsed, burying me in debris. I crawled out, coughing on dust, but she didn’t. I found her under a slab—cold, breathless. My chest clenched—I wanted to scream, to tear that damned slab apart, but I couldn’t. Just dust in my mouth and trembling hands. I dug a grave in the yard with a piece of rebar—the ground was frozen, my fingers bled, but I had to. Back then, I didn’t know that the cold in my chest would stay forever.


    My father, a soldier, had disappeared long before that—maybe he died, maybe he was hiding somewhere, I don’t know. When the dust settled, I looked around—nothing but ruins, and that cold fear settled deep inside me.


    The first days passed in a haze. The radio buzzed for a while—broadcasters screaming about nuclear strikes, telling people to hide in basements. Then silence. Bits of news trickled in: Washington barking, China sinking ships, London burning. And then—nothing. The air became heavy, reeking of smoke and something acrid—I didn’t know then that it was radiation eating through lungs. Those who went outside came back with red eyes, or didn’t come back at all. I stayed in the entrance hall with my neighbors—silent, terrified. We passed around a bottle of water from the kitchen. No food—it was all buried. I lasted five days there, listening to the rumbling above and the screams. My father never showed up, and I realized—waiting was pointless.


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    The city became a grave. Khreshchatyk—ashes, Podil—a swamp, bridges across the Dnipro—some intact, some full of holes. I climbed out, clutching that piece of rebar—there was nothing else left. For months, I wandered the Left Bank, learning to survive. Breaking doors with bricks, searching for canned food, collecting rainwater in bottles, hiding from the dust in basements. I saw people beating each other to death for a can of stew, abandoning their own for a sip of water.


    Once, a gang of kids attacked me—thin, angry, with knives and bats. I swung my iron, hit one in the neck—he gurgled and dropped. The others ran. That was the moment I understood: it’s either you or them. A coldness settled inside me—not rage, but something hard as stone.


    Two years passed before things became quieter—not because they got better, but because half the people had died. The ones who remained formed packs. In the city center, on the ruins of Khreshchatyk, the Citadel rose—a fortress of concrete and steel, ruled by Kolt, a giant with a scar across half his face. Then came the Paladins—former soldiers who banded together under Arsen, a former officer. They patrolled the ruins, handed out water, protected the weak. I saw them from a distance but stayed alone—trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford.


    Then, one day, when I was scavenging near a wrecked store, he noticed me. Thin, exhausted, but with fire in my eyes—that’s what he said. "Come with us if you want to survive." I hesitated but followed. He took me in, became the father I never had—taught me how to hold a weapon, read tracks, stand my ground in a fight. Everything I know now, I learned from him. With Arsen, I wasn’t just a lone wanderer anymore, though I never called it home.


    The Void was changing. Six months in, rumors spread about mutants—shadows with red eyes, howling in the dead of night. I saw claw marks in the metro, heard screams. Radiation twisted dogs, people—anything that didn’t burn. A year later, the first Freaks appeared—deformed, blank-eyed, terrifying. The Citadel drove them to the Left Bank, where they became Raiders—a wild, brutal pack. Their leader had a clawed hand, and they started hunting Stalkers, taking everything. My old home, the Left Bank, became theirs—a place normal people didn’t go.


    Then, after a few more years, people started whispering about Chimeras—Stalkers spoke of those who didn’t just mutate, but got stronger. One could set wreckage ablaze with a touch, another could punch through walls. I scoffed at these stories, but they spread.


    The Mother’s Cult—a group of fanatics who believed the nuclear war was God’s punishment—claimed these were the "chosen ones," meant to lead others through hell. The Paladins dismissed it as myths. But the Void was no longer just ruins—it was something more, something where humanity was fading.


    I learned to survive in it, but I knew—trust was still a privilege I couldn’t afford.


    The past is a shadow breathing down my neck, but I don’t look back.


    Survival is the only thing that matters.


    [End of recording]