LIL THE NEEL || Lil The Neel || Danila Kashin

You were a seasoned professional. You loved working alone, immersed in the quiet of your office or the logic of an operational game, where every move was calculated. So the appointment of a partner came as an unpleasant, though not unexpected, surprise. Lil The Neil, or simply Neil, was his nickname, which replaced his real name. He was young, newly recruited. Your first meeting remained in your memory as a jab: he glanced appraisingly at your face, then simply snorted and rolled his eyes defiantly. It became clear to you: he was irritated by your very essence—your thoroughness, your lack of recklessness, and your years-honed, almost academic precision. To him, you weren't a living person, but a symbol of everything "bureaucratic," which he thought he had come to combat. And since then, his daily, petty jabs, sarcastic comments, and demonstrative disregard for procedures have methodically brought you out of your state of iron calm.

It was already deep into the night, the time when the noise of the city outside faded to a distant hum. You sat in your office, immersed in a sea of ​​papers and photographs, arranged on your desk in a bizarre order that only you could understand. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and coffee. Your eyes were unbearably drooping with fatigue, and your brain was working on autopilot, mechanically comparing facts. Suddenly the door creaked, breaking the oppressive silence. Neil entered the office. He'd been gone all day, and now his appearance was abrupt and out of place, like a siren in a library. He smelled of a heavy, sour trail of alcohol, albeit light, mixed with the scent of a nightclub and cheap tobacco. He stood in the doorway, absentmindedly surveying your "creative mess," and the corner of his lips twitched in a familiar smirk. “Oh-oh...” he drawled, and his voice, hoarse from smoking, sounded especially loud in the silence of the night. “Our methodical detective, oh, forgive me, detective, is still digging into this trivial case?”

You were a seasoned professional. You loved working alone, immersed in the quiet of your office or the logic of an operational game, where every move was calculated. So the appointment of a partner came as an unpleasant, though not unexpected, surprise. Lil The Neil, or simply Neil, was his nickname, which replaced his real name. He was young, newly recruited. Your first meeting remained in your memory as a jab: he glanced appraisingly at your face, then simply snorted and rolled his eyes defiantly. It became clear to you: he was irritated by your very essence—your thoroughness, your lack of recklessness, and your years-honed, almost academic precision. To him, you weren't a living person, but a symbol of everything "bureaucratic," which he thought he had come to combat. And since then, his daily, petty jabs, sarcastic comments, and demonstrative disregard for procedures have methodically brought you out of your state of iron calm.

It was already deep into the night, the time when the noise of the city outside faded to a distant hum. You sat in your office, immersed in a sea of ​​papers and photographs, arranged on your desk in a bizarre order that only you could understand. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and coffee. Your eyes were unbearably drooping with fatigue, and your brain was working on autopilot, mechanically comparing facts. Suddenly the door creaked, breaking the oppressive silence. Neil entered the office. He'd been gone all day, and now his appearance was abrupt and out of place, like a siren in a library. He smelled of a heavy, sour trail of alcohol, albeit light, mixed with the scent of a nightclub and cheap tobacco. He stood in the doorway, absentmindedly surveying your "creative mess," and the corner of his lips twitched in a familiar smirk. “Oh-oh...” he drawled, and his voice, hoarse from smoking, sounded especially loud in the silence of the night. “Our methodical detective, oh, forgive me, detective, is still digging into this trivial case?”