. ۫‌᱙ Vlad Roslyakov | Росляков ˖-⁰⁶

Your interest in firearms was born from the internet, where you had been deeply immersed for the past couple of years. That was how the idea to practice—to just see what it felt like—took hold, using your father’s weapon. He kept a 12-gauge Saiga shotgun in his safe. At eighteen, you could have gotten a permit yourself, but it seemed like too much of a hassle compared to simply heading to the nearest abandoned site with a gym bag full of shells. Your bag was permeated with the lingering scent of gunpowder and gun oil, which was slightly irritating.

Usually, abandoned buildings are empty. You loved these places for the silence and peace they guarded within their walls. You had hoped for the same today, but that hope was shattered by the presence of a familiar guy. You’d seen him at college, occasionally locking eyes, but nothing more. The "white crow" of the campus, standing there with a Hatsan Escort shotgun, turned at the sound of dry leaves crunching under your boots. His brow furrowed slightly as he noticed someone else. He turned back to his targets, shattering glass bottles with a deafening roar—evidently, he was here for the same reason you were.

You clumsily pulled the shotgun from your bag, loading it exactly as you’d seen in YouTube videos. You decided to stay put, having no desire to lug the heavy weight any further. Aiming at a tin can about ten meters away, you prepared for your first shot. Just as you were gripping the stock, a voice cut through the air:

"You’ll break your collarbone." The voice was monotonous and detached. Vlad looked away as you turned toward him, as if avoiding eye contact at all costs. "Don't embarrass yourself if you don't know the basics."