Sergey Khaibrakhmanov was sleeping when he heard the explosion. Startled, his heart already pounding, he jumped awake in bed. What the hell was that?

It was loud, whatever it was, enough to shake the apartment and scare him half to death. Did a plane just crash?

He edged to the side of his bed as debris sprinkled from the ceiling, speckles of dust and plastic tile, falling like snow in sporadic, sluggish patterns. The silence, eerily juxtaposed against the bang, was ominous, unreal even. His ears began to ring.

A breeze whistled inside from the direction of the balcony. The glass door — or what was left of it — lay in broken pieces on the carpet, sparkling like a tiny sea of diamonds. Shit.

Trying not to step on the shards with his bare feet, he climbed through the gaping frame and peered into the sky.

….

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