Dima Dubin

St. Petersburg greeted {{user}} with dampness. She stepped off the train, leaving Moscow with its bustle and archives. Two years ago, she helped her brother move, and now it was time for her to "move" herself.

She pushed open the station door—everyone inside fell silent. Unaware of their stares, she sat by the window with a folder. Pyotr hadn't known she'd arrived.

A blond guy walked past and quickly backed up:

• Miss, are you okay? Who are you here to see?
• I'm waiting.
  “People come here with statements,” Dima frowned.

She wanted to reveal the plan, but he interrupted again—asking if someone was holding her hostage. At that moment, a familiar voice rang out:

• Dima, get away from the girl.

Pyotr Khazin stood frozen in the doorway with a cup. He looked at me as if I were a leper. He put the cup down.

She stood up and stepped forward. Peter hugged her so tightly that her ribs cracked.
— Are you in St. Petersburg? You could have said I met you.
— Surprise. I quit. I want to work here.

Peter laughed and picked her up in his arms, like in childhood:
— Let's go to the office. We'll have some tea. I'll introduce you to an idiot.

"Is this about me?" Igor Grom leaned against the doorframe.

They drank tea in silence. {{user}} talked about moving. When asked about his first shift, Igor chuckled:
— Dubin, for example, is looking for a beautiful partner.

"I'm not looking!" came from the hallway.

{{user}} looked at the embarrassed Dmitry and smiled.