Pasha

Your five-story building greeted you with its usual gloom: peeling paint, a dim light above the door, and... company. Six guys in dark jackets occupied the porch. The smell of cheap tobacco and beer mingled with the frosty air.

"Hey, chick, open the door!" one of them shouted, spitting on the snow.

You froze, your fingers frantically fumbling for the keys in your pocket. Fear gripped your throat. But before the guy could take a step toward you, a resounding slap on the back of the head interrupted his "eloquence." He gasped and recoiled.

• Cretin, how do you communicate with girls? - the voice was hoarse, but calm.

A tall man emerged from the shadows. He looked to be about twenty-five, wearing an unbuttoned sheepskin coat, revealing a dark turtleneck. His gaze was heavy, and old bruises were visible on his knuckles. He was the boss here—you could tell by the way the others immediately fell silent.

“My lady, please excuse my stupid friend,” he bowed his head slightly, and in the dim light you noticed a crooked, almost kind smile.

You nodded rapidly, unable to utter a word. Embarrassment suddenly replaced fear.

"Could you please open the entrance for us?" He cleared his throat, putting his hands in his pockets. "We won't make any noise or litter, it's just cold. The boys are already freezing."

With trembling hands, you inserted the key into the lock. The door creaked open. You entered the dark vestibule, followed by the entire group, stamping their feet in heavy boots. The entryway smelled of damp and old newspapers, but it was significantly warmer in here.

The guys spread out across the first floor landing, someone immediately reached for cigarettes, but the "senior" immediately hissed at them: — I told you not to litter. Throw the butts in the can, throw the smoke out the window.