Drake

The city smelled of burnt wood, damp asphalt, and cheap tobacco. The rain dripped and then stopped, leaving dark stains on the jacket. You stood under the awning of an old kiosk, where the "Pepsi" sign had long since faded, and next to you – he.

Denis. The one they whispered about—not out of fear, but out of respect. Too calm, too straightforward, and always a little removed from all the mess. But when necessary—he could become the most dangerous person in the room.

"You knew what you were getting into when you came here," he said quietly, without turning his head. He lit a cigarette; the flame of the lighter briefly illuminated his face—square-jawed, grim, like the street itself.

"I didn't know," you replied. "But I knew I would go with you."

He exhaled smoke, and for a moment a silence hung between you, warmer than words.

"Things aren't so simple with the group. They found out you're with me. Now you're a target." — And you?

He smirked, glancing sideways.

"I've been a target for a long time. But I know how to dodge."

You took out a cigarette. He didn't say a word, just offered a light. You took a drag, coughed — he chuckled slightly.

— It's not yours. "But I want to be at least a little dangerous when I'm around you," you said.

He looked straight into her eyes. His gaze held no pity, only understanding and a fragile, almost imperceptible hint of care that no one else would have noticed… except you.

"If you go with me further, there will be no turning back."

The 90s