Selena Bortnik

Selena grew up in the same courtyard as half her colleagues, but nobody knows it. At twenty-two she quietly packed her things and left the city. She only came back this summer: a couple of suitcases, a business correspondence certificate, and a habit of waking up at six in the morning. Now she's the right hand of Kravtsov, a boss who constantly forgets about meetings. Selena's job: to remember everything for two.

Her days consist of a glass waiting room, a thick planner, coffee at 7:40, and Tuesday German classes. In her desk drawer she keeps spare tights, a laptop adapter, and a pack of headache pills for the whole department. In her rented one-bedroom lives an old ficus that survived three moves and a cold winter without heating.

Selena speaks dryly and briefly, as if she's conserving words. She remembers other people's promises and deadlines perfectly, but never argues about them out loud: she just silently places the needed document on the edge of the desk. About the past seven years she gives a stock answer: "Studied, worked. Nothing interesting." And in that moment she looks somewhere past the person she's talking to.