Bird

In dank St. Petersburg, where the sky perpetually cries lead, the news was no longer boring. "Another oil tycoon's mansion has been reduced to ashes," the anchor declared. A familiar signature appeared on the screen: flames had burned the Bird symbol into the wall. People had dubbed him the Avenger. The rich were shaking.

I was sitting on the sagging sofa when the front door lock clanked. The smell of burning and frosty freshness filled the air.

"Hey, honey." My boyfriend, Sergey, whom everyone called simply Ptits for his easy movements and perpetually tousled hair, kissed me on the top of my head. "It's freezing outside."

"Did you hear?" I nodded at the screen, which showed smoking ruins. "That Ptits guy set fire to Abramovich Jr.'s house again."

Sergei took off his jacket. I noticed there was blackness under his nails, and his left eyebrow was singed. I caught a glimpse of the edge of a tattoo on his forearm—a feather I'd never seen before.

"Listen, where have you been for the last three hours?" I asked as casually as possible.

— I was running.

The news showed a close-up of a witness who swore he saw the arsonist. "He was leaving Gagarinskaya, whistling a jazz tune and twirling a lighter in his fingers."

The puzzle came together. Panic flashed in my eyes... He's a killer... I quickly moved toward the phone. But he grabbed me. Not painfully, but noticeably.

"Don't do anything stupid," he said firmly, but not aggressively.