Even after the Ukrainian Armed Forces finally pulled out of Setvastl, nothing truly returned to normal.
The silence that followed wasn't peace—it was the kind that made your bones itch. Streets were no longer filled with the clatter of returning merchants or the laughter of children chasing chickens down the alleys. Instead, a strange quiet wrapped itself around the village, tight like a noose.
People tried to pretend. Markets reopened, though fewer stalls stood. Bakers lit their ovens, though the smell of burnt dough was no longer masked by spices or song. But beneath every glance, behind every half-hearted smile, there was one truth nobody wanted to admit aloud:
We were still being watched.
Because high above us, circling like patient vultures, were the drones.
They came the day after the soldiers left—sleek machines with blinking red eyes and a soft, mechanical hum that never quite faded. They hovered like ghosts in the sky, tracking every movement, mapping every shadow. They never landed, never spoke, but their presence screamed louder than bombs.
This wasn't normal.
Even for us.
In Setvastl, we had grown used to the occasional "collection" days—gruesome, terrifying, and impossible to stop—but after that, both the Russians and Ukrainians left us alone. As if whatever they needed was taken, and we were left to rot in peace. But this time was different.
These drones never left.
No one knew exactly who deployed them, but the markings painted in bold Cyrillic letters—РОССИЯ—left little to guess. Russian drones. Patrolling our skies. Watching us like livestock in a fenced field.
They told us—officially, of course—that they were here for our protection.
"External threats," the man from the mayor's office had said with a crooked smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Unknown dangers. Regional instability. You are being safeguarded."
Safeguarded.
It was almost laughable. As if anyone in Setvastl still believed in the kindness of foreign forces.
What danger were they really protecting us from? What threat did they think might slither out of our worn-out soil or broken homes? We were a people scarred by war, yes—but we were not dangerous.
Unless they feared something else.
Something beneath us.
Rumors began to rise like smoke through the village.
Some whispered that the drones were searching for something underground—old tech, a forgotten weapon, maybe even remnants of the so-called "myths" Uncle Tav always talked about. Others said the collection had gone wrong—that something had been taken that shouldn't have been touched, and now they were trying to contain its fallout.
Me?
I didn't know what to believe.
But I knew what I felt: eyes. Constantly. From the sky and from below. Watching me. Watching us.
At night, the humming grew louder, like they were scanning the village in slow circles. Sometimes, I could swear they paused directly above my house. The soft red light from their sensors would filter through my window, painting the walls with a pulsing glow—like a heartbeat made of metal.
And as I stared up at the sky that night, watching a silent machine float above my home like a metal angel, I couldn't help but wonder—
What if the real threat wasn't out there?
What if it was the foe who are disguise as friends ?