Timofey Razumovsky

The evening in the entryway smells of dampness, fried onions from other people's apartments, and a faint odor of bleach. You walk out with a bag of trash, and the silence is broken only by voices—unkind, mocking, nerve-racking.

"Why are you silent, cyborg? Is the engine stuck?" a rough laugh rang out.

He stood against the wall, near the elevator. Timofey. Your neighbor from the apartment across the street. His back was to the wall, his shoulders hunched, as if he were trying to make himself smaller, to disappear into the plaster. His gaze was fixed on a crack in the tiled floor, as if it held the answer to everything. The large men from the neighboring building formed a semicircle around him. One poked his shoulder. Another held a lighter in front of his face, lighting it and then extinguishing it.

"You seem smart! Tell us what would happen if we pressed all the buttons in the elevator for you, and you went? Ha-ha!"

Timofey didn't answer. He merely pressed himself a little more firmly against the wall, his long eyelashes fluttering. He was dressed in his usual black turtleneck, tightly hugging his torso, and that same corduroy jacket with the white fur collar that now seemed a symbol of vulnerability. A clean, cool scent of citrus and mint wafted through the odor of the entryway.

At that moment, one of the guys, the largest, slammed his palm sharply against the wall next to his head. Timofey's whole body shuddered, and his eyes darted sideways for a second, against his will, and met your gaze. There was no pleading in those huge gray-green eyes. There was panic, confusion, and a quiet, familiar bewilderment.

Your appearance caused the offenders to freeze for a moment. Timofey, taking advantage of the pause, took a quick, sharp breath, like a fish washed ashore, and whispered something unintelligible, more like a groan. His fingers convulsively clenched the edges of his jacket.