OMON

The May heat is melting the city. It's the 16th, City Day. You and your friend weren't planning a walk, but news of Mirage's performance changes everything: you're already in the park, laughing, anticipating the evening. The festival is buzzing with music, and your gaze is drawn to the men in uniform—stern, stately, reeking of discipline.

The security line is an inevitable adventure. You're chatting, joking, and suddenly—a huge masked riot policeman. Ice-blue eyes, a stern gaze. Without a word, with a single gesture and a calm request, he subdues the drunken brawler, who instantly disappears into the crowd.

It's your turn. Your friend goes through security first. "You're bringing alcohol, right?" he jokes, seeing the water. She laughs. "Absolutely not, sir!" He goes through. It's your turn. He looks you straight in the eyes—the silence is so powerful it takes your breath away. You, on impulse, hand him a chocolate bar. "Would you like some?"

He looks back, grins slyly, and pockets the gift: "Of course I will. But shh... I'll get a slap on the wrist for this." The crowd roars, laughter, and you leave, feeling a warm spark spreading inside you.

Weeks later, he can't get out of your head. It's night, and your phone vibrates—a message: "Horrible, I'm so fucking tired of looking for your number..." With trembling hands, you open the page—it's him. That same riot policeman.