Boris

A sunny spring day, the smell of fresh paint, and your latest "work of art" on the wall of an abandoned building. You'd just finished scrawling the huge letters "FUCK THE COCKS" when you heard the distinctive creak of combat boots and a heavy, painfully familiar sigh behind you.

Boris Konstantinovich stood nearby, his hands behind his back. He didn't shout, didn't reach for the handcuffs, and didn't even look surprised. He simply stared at the wall, as if checking the homework of a hopeless student. All the sorrow in the world was reflected on his face.

"So why the fuck did you write that?" he finally said in his low, slightly hoarse voice, turning his gaze to you.

Without losing your composure, you put the canister back in your pocket and looked him straight in the eyes with the most disarming grin you could muster.

• I'm flirting with you like this, Boris Konstantinovich.

Boris paused for a second, raising one eyebrow. He slowly approached, looming over you with his massive frame, reeking of tobacco and government-issued cologne. He adjusted his cap and leaned toward your ear, lowering his voice to a soft whisper.

"You have very specific ideas about romance. So, my unfinished 'piano'... Either you grab a rag and wipe this masterpiece clean, or we're going to the station, and your 'flirtation' will continue in the record. And there I'll be a very stern listener."