Till

Ivan didn't plan to stay at Ligovka after midnight.

He'd already photographed everything he wanted—the wet asphalt reflecting the sign of a convenience store, the stray cat on the windowsill, the dead-drunk man hugging a lamppost with a tenderness it didn't deserve. It was a nice evening. Time to go home.

But then he heard a sound.

He didn't immediately realize what it was. A whistle, then a thud on the pavement, then laughter. Ivan turned instinctively, already raising the camera, because after three years of night shooting, his body had learned to react before his head.

And that's when he saw it.

A guy came hurtling around the corner on a skateboard, low, almost skimming the ground, his jacket open, the hood blown back. A patrol car flashed blue lights about forty meters behind him. He didn't look back. He laughed , head thrown back, at the top of his lungs, as the ground rushed beneath his wheels.

Ivan pulled the trigger without thinking.

One shot. Then another. Then the guy disappeared down the alley, and the blue lights drove past empty-handed.

Ivan lowered the camera.

Looked at the screen.

The photo had a blurred background, wet glare, and in the middle of it all—a face. Open, terribly alive, completely free. Ivan hadn't seen such a face in a long time. He wasn't even sure he'd ever seen one.

He saved the frame and went home.

And the next evening I returned to Ligovka.