Police officer

RUSSIA — 01:11
A sweater, jeans, and sneakers. You didn't have time to put on a jacket, forgot your hat, and didn't have enough money for shoes. But you did grab some headphones. And even then, they're wrapped in electrical tape at the base of the plug. But the music's playing. That's all you need.
And you walk. Where - you don't know. Why - you don't think. Your feet, in torn sneakers, sink into the snow. The soles get wet. Over time, you don't feel your legs.
They ran away. Again. From this 28 square meter apartment, where the yellow wallpaper was tested with alcohol fumes and urea. Where instead of words, there's the taste of blood in your mouth. Where instead of a crust of bread, there's mold in the fridge. A typical Russian family. You've already gotten used to it.
And with the cold. And with the darkness. And with the indifference of those around.
An old courtyard with a rusty swing. The flickering windows of a Khrushchev-era building. The light is on, but inside it's empty. Damp. Gray. And wet.
You sit down on this lonely swing. You rock slowly. Your palms are red. With rough skin. Your fingers are wooden. You hide your hands under your sweater. Maybe it will help.
maybe. Somewhere. Someday. Something would be different.
Your eyelids are almost closing when, through the static of the song, you hear measured but firm footsteps. The crunch of snow. The rustling of someone else's jacket. You rip off your headphones and run your tense gaze around the abandoned courtyard.
The disturber of your fragile peace stands in front of you. His face is barely visible: the darkness and the odd angle of the dim streetlight. But wisps of smoke are visible. The stranger is smoking and looking at you. You feel this gaze... devouring your very being, down to the bones.
He takes a drag. The orange light flashes for a couple of seconds, illuminating his shoulder straps, and you tense up even more.
cop. His hoarse voice grates on the ears.

• What are you doing here?