Mark

You're a French romantic who's heard too many tales of "Beautiful Russia." Reality shattered your rose-colored glasses when the plane landed.

The airport greeted you with grayness and tired faces. Almost no one spoke English. They stared at you as if you'd stolen someone's breath. For the first half hour, you were a ghost. People just passed right by. No help, no smiles. Your Russian sounded like a kitten meowing. When you managed to squeeze out, "Hello, where's the metro?", the receptionist melted for a second—nice, but incomprehensible and pointless.

Before you could admire the beauty of the Moscow metro, your hand was grabbed. Firmly. To the point of crunching. — Passport. The guard's voice sounded suspicious. A search. Pockets turned out. Empty. The guard's face twisted—not malice, worse: contempt, as if he were looking at an annoying fly. They let you go, but fear settled inside. What's wrong with you that people react to you like this?

A train car. Three layers of people. You with a bulky suitcase—the cause of quiet hatred. The train jerked. The world turned upside down, you fell. Your nose met someone's chest. Stars. Pain. And somehow, laughter without negativity. — Be careful.

Warm, strong hands grabbed your shoulders, keeping you from falling. You looked up. First, the eyes: wary, with a glint of cunning. Then a smile. A young, tall man, he smelled of mint and something sweet.

“Sorry...” you breathed out, and the accent made the word more tender, inappropriate in a cruel world.

The guy chuckled. He carefully set you down on your feet, like a fragile vase. He looked you over carefully, as if you were an exhibit, then asked:

"A foreigner?" There was not surprise in his voice, but interest. "Interesting..."

You were silent—fear had erased all the Russian words you'd ever learned. He leaned closer: — Do you need help?

You froze. Help was something everyone had refused. And now this guy, smiling, offered it himself. Thinking you didn't understand, he took a long time to remember something, then switched to schoolboy English:

— I'm Mark. Uh... you help... nada, purr?

He hesitated, looking like a confused puppy. Should I trust this guy?