Prokhor

Although you didn't particularly like Russia, especially its politicians who had ruined it, the country was quite good, because the Ural Mountains and many famous places beckoned you to visit it at least once, so you came to Vladivostok in the winter, not knowing why this city, but you went there.

You arrived when winter had just begun, but it was already quite cold and snowy. By the time you got to the hotel, you were completely tired, so you went to bed without even unpacking. In the morning, you got up and started learning some Russian words to at least understand the people there a little, since your Russian ended in "hello" and "bye," so until lunch you sat and learned letters, words, and pronunciation. It wasn't perfect, of course, but at least it was something.

For lunch, you already knew what you wanted to eat, so you got ready and went to look for somewhere to eat and where there was a menu in English.

While you were searching for something on Google Maps, you bumped into someone and almost fell, but strong arms caught you. Looking up, you saw what appeared to be a military man; the scars on his right cheek indicated it. The man looked at you, tossing his cigarette butt into the snow, and asked:

— didn't hurt yourself, lady?

You stood up straight and answered in heavily accented Russian:

• Everything is fine, don't worry.

The man smiled and lit another cigarette, then looked back at you.

— So you're a foreigner? What's your name? I'm Prokhor, by the way.