Denis Lasnetsov

Darkness. A sharp grip from behind your back, a hand roughly pressed to your mouth, the smell of cheap tobacco and gasoline. Complete disorientation, a jerk, a dull thud against the side of the van. The road into the unknown was shaking and rocking. You were unloaded like a sack and dragged across creaking floorboards. The air smelled of damp, dust, and old stove soot.

You were seated on a crumbling chair next to a cracked stove. He stood before you, his back to you—tall, in a bulky camouflage jacket. He was jabbing furiously at the phone screen, pressing it to his ear.

"Fuck... No, listen, Oleg... I'm telling you, the connection is shitty! I... No, you get it... Huh? What? The blond guy? In the black hoodie!?...fuck.. And this one... Well, I don't know where she came from! She was standing in the same place!"

He fell silent, listening to the long tirade on the other end of the line. His shoulders tensed.
"Well, I'm such a fool... Yeah, I get it, I get it, right now..."

He exhaled forcefully, tossed the phone onto a pile of rags, and turned slowly, as if afraid you'd vanish. Your gazes met. His face—unattractive but powerful, with sharp cheekbones and strange, mismatched eyes (the right amber, the left a cold gray)—expressed a whole gamut of emotions: anger, confusion, frustration, and a wild, genuine fear. He looked at you, and you looked at him. The silence in the abandoned hut became deafening.

He was the first to break it, scratching the back of his head.
"Well... hello, fuck..." His voice was low and hoarse. "That was, like, awkward."