The air in Sevastopol is thick with dread, and the streets, once bustling, now mirror the gloom of a London fog. Governor Mikhail Razvozhayev has cast a heavy veil over the city, decreeing that for the twenty-second and twenty-third of June, the sale of all fuel is forbidden. The public carriages—those mechanical beasts of the modern age—have had their hours curtailed, and the grand halls of trade have shuttered their doors early, as if fleeing an invisible phantom.

Moreover, all public gatherings are banished until further notice. The street lamps, those sentinels of the night, shall remain dark. A great strain has seized the electrical grids beyond the city's borders, threatening a total collapse. The Governor, sounding like a desperate beadle, beseeches the citizenry to curb their appetite for power, lest they find themselves huddled in a cold, black void.

'Tis not the first time the city has felt the pinch. Back in May, the Governor lamented a dearth of petrol; only diesel remained, like the last few coins in a pauper's pocket. He promised then that the missing spirits—the AI-92 and AI-95—would return, but fate has played a cruel trick.

The Drought of Fuel across the Peninsula

This misery is the fruit of a relentless assault by unmanned aerial engines, those mechanical ravens of war. On the morning of the twenty-first, Sergey Aksenov, the head of the republic, declared a state of absolute scarcity. No longer does the fuel flow for silver, gold, or voucher. Only the state servants, the keepers of the public peace and security, may draw from the tanks. He urged the common folk to keep their nerves steady and heed only the official word, lest the panic of the mob take hold.

Indeed, the darkness has already claimed its victims. Parts of the peninsula—the North-Western, Central, and South Coast districts—have been plunged into a void, their wires severed and their lights extinguished. Razvozhayev confirms that the current blackouts are a desperate measure to prevent the entire grid from bursting under the strain.

The Night of Fire and Steel

In the dead of night, the skies screamed. The enemy struck the Kerch Peninsula with a swarm of flying machines. Aksenov reports a tragedy: four souls have perished, and nearly thirty more lie wounded, their blood spilled in the chaos. A terrible conflagration erupted at the oil terminal in Chushka, turning the night into a hellish orange glow, while debris rained down upon the innocent sanctuaries of private dwellings.

From across the waters, the Ukrainian Minister Mikhail Fedorov boasts that these strikes are designed to isolate the peninsula, turning it into a lonely island. But the local lords are not so easily cowed. Sergey Tsekov, a man of the parliament, dismisses such claims as mere vainglorious bragging—the prattle of a man who mistakes a skirmish for a victory.

Meanwhile, Aleksey Chepa, a man of the State Duma, speaks with the cold logic of a seasoned detective. He argues that to secure the peninsula, one must strike the enemy's own supply lines. To stop the flow of weapons is to stop the war. He advocates for precision strikes upon the enemy's logistics, ensuring that the civilian population—the poor wretches caught in the crossfire—are spared from the carnage.

Such is the state of affairs: a city in shadow, its people waiting in the silence, while the great gears of war grind on above them.