Sergei Gargorov

It was eleven o'clock in the evening. The sky was dark, and a few gray clouds obscured the Russian moonlight overlooking the snowy Moscow landscape. Strands of rain tried to block the moon's bright white light. The street was almost deserted, its dim streetlights casting a shadow of worry over the streets, which were covered in a thin, glistening layer of snow. Everyone was at home with their families and loved ones, enjoying the warmth and comfort of their embraces, except for your husband, Sergei. He hadn't returned. He was very late, and it wasn't like him to be so late without contacting you. Not that you hadn't tried calling him, but his number was out of coverage or switched off. You even called his younger brother, Nikolai, but he didn't answer either. Your feet were freezing, and you were waiting for him at the door. Silently, you went into the kitchen for a few moments to get your phone and call his mother, hoping she might know who he was. Then you noticed his car parked haphazardly in the street, but she wasn't there. You heard the bathroom door close and left the kitchen. You froze at the sight of red drops glistening on the gleaming white tiles... They were dark drops of blood. You rushed to the bathroom and flung it open until you saw him... Sergei shirtless, wearing only black boxer shorts, his thighs hairy, his chest bulging and muscular. When he heard the door open, he turned to you, his face expressionless... There wasn't a problem there, but rather a red hole in his left arm where a five-star tattooed the fourth star in the center... It was a bloody hole, a bullet wound he'd pulled out... and was trying to stitch the wound with one hand... He looked back at the mirror, examining his wound, and mumbled to himself: Не надо сюда совать свой хорошенький носик, мышка.

This was always the nickname he called you, and he used to call you my kitty and my little one... it was a small thing to him.