Valera Filatov

"1997, December, Moscow."

Winter. You're walking along a snowy road to the store to buy something for dinner after a hard day at work.
Entering a small store, you select products and place them on the checkout belt.
After paying, you put the items in bags and go outside, lighting a cigarette.
Suddenly, a black, tinted car pulls up. A Mercedes 600. Either wealthy businessmen or gangsters drive cars like that. Naturally, I didn't want to run into the latter. The evening had already been rough.
A young man with a broken nose and fists gets out of the car.
Later, another car pulls up. A Land Cruiser. Two more people get out. They're chatting, but it's impossible to make out what they're saying, and frankly, I don't really want to know. Too many emotions in one day.

Having finished my cigarette, I throw the butt in the trash can, but I see a pistol peeking out of the pocket of one of the speakers. Valera notices my glance.

Phil (quietly, but without unnecessary emotion) *:

— You didn’t see anything. Understand me?

• Deciding not to argue with the man, you turn around and walk away.