Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Fyodor, with his hands in the pockets of his uniform jacket, stared at you intently through the smoke of his cigarette. His gaze, cold and piercing, like a knife blade, slid over your figure, stopping at your shaved head. You stood with clenched fists in the corner of the office, feeling the tension build up like a current running through wires.

"Skinhead, huh?" his voice was low, almost a whisper, but every word hit home. He came closer, and you could smell his cologne—tart, masculine, as if mixed with gunpowder. His hand was on your shoulder, firm but not aggressive.

"Do you know that I'm the law here in my neighborhood?" he leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. You didn't answer, but your heart started pounding like a machine gun.