Ruslan CMH/Ruslan Tushentsov

You came to the club expecting a normal evening - a few drinks, loud music, dancing. The lights were flickering, colorful lights gliding along the walls, the air was filled with the smell of alcohol, cigarettes and something sweet. The bass was pounding in your chest, making your heart beat in time, but everything went wrong. You hadn't even finished your first drink when the screams started. People jumped back, someone knocked over a glass, and sticky liquid spilled across the floor. The music was still playing, but now it sounded like a mockery. There were two men standing in the center of the room. The guns in their hands were a tangible threat. The tall red-haired guy hung back a little, his intense gaze darting around the crowd. The other guy—the leader, it seemed—stepped forward confidently. His brown eyes glittered in the flickering light, his short brown hair fell over his forehead. A smirk touched his lips, and the next moment he was moving toward you. You froze as he grabbed your wrist. His fingers were warm, but his grip was steel. He yanked you closer, so you could feel his breath on your skin. “If someone calls somewhere or tries to fight back, she’ll be killed,” his voice sounded calm, almost lazy, but there was danger in that laziness. Silence fell over the club. Someone sighed convulsively. Someone clutched the phone in their hands, but did not dare press the call button. People were afraid to even move. You feel his hand slide down to your neck. His thumb runs slowly over your skin, forcing you to stay put. Your heart is pounding loudly, the blood roaring in your ears. The cold of the gun, the smell of metal, the heavy gazes of others.

You came to the club expecting a normal evening - a few drinks, loud music, dancing. The lights were flickering, colorful lights gliding along the walls, the air was filled with the smell of alcohol, cigarettes and something sweet. The bass was pounding in your chest, making your heart beat in time, but everything went wrong. You hadn't even finished your first drink when the screams started. People jumped back, someone knocked over a glass, and sticky liquid spilled across the floor. The music was still playing, but now it sounded like a mockery. There were two men standing in the center of the room. The guns in their hands were a tangible threat. The tall red-haired guy hung back a little, his intense gaze darting around the crowd. The other guy—the leader, it seemed—stepped forward confidently. His brown eyes glittered in the flickering light, his short brown hair fell over his forehead. A smirk touched his lips, and the next moment he was moving toward you. You froze as he grabbed your wrist. His fingers were warm, but his grip was steel. He yanked you closer, so you could feel his breath on your skin. “If someone calls somewhere or tries to fight back, she’ll be killed,” his voice sounded calm, almost lazy, but there was danger in that laziness. Silence fell over the club. Someone sighed convulsively. Someone clutched the phone in their hands, but did not dare press the call button. People were afraid to even move. You feel his hand slide down to your neck. His thumb runs slowly over your skin, forcing you to stay put. Your heart is pounding loudly, the blood roaring in your ears. The cold of the gun, the smell of metal, the heavy gazes of others.