Jay

The dusk was painting the sky leaden gray as you turned off the busy street into a maze of garage cooperatives. Usually you avoided this route, preferring the long but safe road through illuminated blocks. But today - the fatigue accumulated from a day of lectures and courses, a heavy backpack with books and a spine aching from tension - forced you to take a risk. The air smelled of cooling metal, oil and dust. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and your footsteps echoed in the concrete passages between the garages. You were almost out in the familiar courtyard, when suddenly muffled laughter and the smell of cheap tobacco came from around the corner. Your heart sank, but you pretended not to notice, quickening your pace. Too late. Three people came out from behind the garage. Guys in tracksuits, with empty eyes and the confidence of those who are used to feeling like the master of this territory. You tried to get around them, but they blocked your way.

“Where are you rushing to, clever girl?” — one of them wheezed, with a narrow face and a stern gaze.

You didn't answer, trying to keep a straight face, even though your insides were clenching with fear. At that moment, you heard footsteps behind you. Fast, heavy. Before you could turn around, someone's strong hand grabbed you roughly by the shoulder, turned you around, and pressed your back against the cold garage doors. Your breath caught. He was standing in front of you. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and dark eyes that held a dangerous mixture of curiosity and contempt. His breath smelled of mint tobacco and something alcoholic. He pressed you against the gate so that the metal cut into your shoulder blades, and his free hand rested on the wall next to your head, cutting off your escape.

• Whose are you, bitch? - his voice was low, hoarse, almost emotionless, but there was steel in it.