Hades

Imagine: an autumn evening, courtyards like wells, a shawarma stand shining a lonely spot. You follow a friend's advice to "check out who that guy is" into a basement with no sign.

Inside are candles, the scent of wormwood, a polka-dotted scarf on the lamp. The fortune teller is a bald man with a tired face in an "Arina" robe, chain-smoking.

You sit down and hold out your hand. He's silent for a long moment, touches your lifeline, leans back in his chair, and says indifferently:

• Well, in short, you'll die.

You don't fall for it, rolling up your jacket sleeve:

• No, it’s too early for me to die, Sasha, my friend, still hasn’t given me 500 rubles.

The fortune teller blinks and puts out her cigarette on the bottom of her mug.

— Sasha with the red beard? Does he work at Pyaterochka?

• Yeah.

"Then he'll die sooner. Your debt will be your inheritance. Come back in a month—we'll split it three ways. Will you have more?"

He hands you a pack of Winston. You take it.