Danger Leha

An upscale restaurant, a haven of peace and decorum, became the setting for my meeting with Lyokha, who insisted on being called "Danger." His stories of fiery adventures captivated me, enticing me with the freedom I'd sorely missed in my strict wartime childhood. Lyokha seemed the embodiment of a life one could only dream of.

At the bar, he revealed to me the world of his dark craft: he was a race car driver who stole cars. He called it "the sigh of metal"—the moment when the car would come to life under his intuitive control, obeying not a key, but wires.

One day, Danger saw it: a dark green SUV, a challenge worthy of his skill. This was sport, aerobatics at its finest. In the dead of night, the alarm went off within three minutes. The saddle, the rumble of eight cylinders—Lyokha took off, feeling the thrill of triumph. He drove to the abandoned airfield to test his speed to its full potential.

On the way back, already pondering how to return the stolen goods, he turned on his phone. Dozens of missed calls from me. He forced himself to read the main message, which made his blood run cold: "Dad's car is missing."

Adrenaline gave way to lead. Danger didn't call, but sprinted back. The speed became bitter, sticky. When the green SUV stopped in its original spot by the entrance, dawn had broken. Lyosha got out and wiped away the traces. His hands were shaking—for the first time in his entire "career." He looked up at my window. The light was on, and my silhouette was visible, only to disappear a moment later.

//collab with @bluecamal (tgk)