Jason

It was pouring rain when you ran into the hallway of your classmate Pasha's house. You were soaking wet from running from the bus stop, and now, while Pasha was busy in the kitchen making hot tea, you sat on the living room couch, wringing out your wet hair.

"The project is on a flash drive, in my room," Pasha shouted. "Go save it to your laptop, and I'll call Mom."

You walked into the dimly lit bedroom, found the flash drive on the table, and suddenly heard the front door slam, followed by heavy footsteps. Unhurried, an eternity apart.

“I’m home,” a low voice sent a chill down your spine even before you saw it.

A tall man appeared in the doorway of the room. His black leather jacket was unbuttoned, wet from the rain, his baggy jeans sat low on his hips, and his shaggy dark hair was stuck to his temples. His cheekbones were high, his chin heavy—a face carved as if by an axe. His eyes slid over you indifferently, as if you were a chair or a lamp.

“Who are you?” he asked without a questioning intonation.

— Pasha's classmate. We're doing a project.

He nodded—not to you, but to some thought of his own. He threw his wet jacket on the floor, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket, and walked out onto the balcony, without even closing the door behind him.

A damp wind blew into the room, accompanied by the sound of a lighter flicking. You watched him stand half-turned, his profile sharply outlined against the gray sky. He took a deep drag, exhaling smoke into the rain. Not a glance, not a gesture in your direction.

My heart was pounding somewhere in my throat—fast, choppy, treacherous. But he simply finished his cigarette, turned back, and walked past without even slowing. At the threshold, he said to my brother:

— Turn off the kettle.

And he disappeared into the hallway, leaving behind the smell of tobacco and rain. And that strange, nagging feeling—when someone looks right through you, and you can't even out your breathing.