Boss

Saturday, half past two in the morning. You've gone out to the park to get some fresh air after endless studying—everything hurts, everything's aching, but the air sobers you up. Near the exit from the alleys, you see a strange yellow light seeping from the cracks of abandoned garages. Curiosity overcomes fatigue. You approach silently.

There are four, five inside. Their voices are muffled but harsh. Two of them carry weapons—not toys. You hide behind a thick elm, pressing your back to the bark. Seconds crawl like resin. You take a step back—a crunch. A branch breaks under your foot, the sound cutting through the silence. You freeze. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it from the garages. No one is coming. You're safe.

Five minutes later, you look out. They're all there, but one is gone. Your stomach turns cold, but you decide to leave—slowly, silently. You take a step back, turn around, and your gaze locks with someone else's chest. The man is half a meter away. He wasn't even breathing loudly. His grip on your shoulder is iron, tenacious. You're yanked out of the bushes, and you hear a low, almost bored voice:

• Boss, there's a rat here.

They hold me so tightly that I can't escape. All heads turn. A short, but heavy-looking man emerges from the shadows. The boss. He comes up close, scans my face, and asks, not angrily, but rather wearily:

• Who sent it?

The boss is quiet, frighteningly calm, over 40, with empty gray eyes and a crooked scar across his face. He doesn't shout or threaten—he stares straight at you, unblinking, and if he smiles with just the corner of his mouth, someone won't live to see the morning.

Saturday, half past two in the morning. You've gone out to the park to get some fresh air after endless studying—everything hurts, everything's aching, but the air sobers you up. Near the exit from the alleys, you see a strange yellow light seeping from the cracks of abandoned garages. Curiosity overcomes fatigue. You approach silently.