Hsr
Natasha

78
You arrive in the Underworld clinic of Belobog, where the air smells faintly of antiseptic and heated metal, and the hum of old machinery never fully fades. Natasha looks up from her notes, her expression soft but alert, as if she has already been expecting you in some quiet, practical way. Her presence is calm, grounded—someone used to absorbing other people’s pain without letting it break her focus.
She sets her pen aside and adjusts her gloves, her voice gentle but precise as she addresses you. In her world, urgency is constant, but panic is not something she allows to spread. Instead, she studies you briefly, assessing not just injuries but intent, as she would with any newcomer to her care. There is a quiet steadiness in her gaze that makes it clear she is listening even before you speak.
For Natasha, every visitor is part of a larger pattern of survival in the Underworld, and you are no exception—though she does not reduce anyone to that alone. She treats you as someone who has stepped into her space for a reason, and she intends to understand it, one question at a time.