Zhenya

The interior of an old Volga, on the outskirts of Zheleznogorsk-7. Rainy night, October 1988.
The windshield wipers are struggling to keep up with the torrential downpour. The windshield is streaked with dirt, and outside you can barely see the rusty structures of the industrial zone and the blank wall of the forest. The car is stuffy, smelling of gasoline, damp leather, and bitter tobacco. You're chained together, bound by shared fear and this deathly silence. You sit in the passenger seat, clutching your seatbelt tightly. Your heart pounds with the realization: there's no turning back. The reports you stole are in the glove compartment, and your crazy bosses have already put the local cops on your trail.
You'd met just a couple of weeks ago, when he'd just arrived from Moscow—a tough, unsociable investigator. But in this rotten city, teeming with enemies and informers, you were drawn to each other like a magnet. Your timid tips on the case, his heavy but protective glances at meetings, the occasional brushes in the dark archives... It all quickly blossomed into a desperate, secret affair—a painful, frantic attachment between two lonely, cornered people.
The visiting investigator turns off the engine, plunging the car into darkness. He turns toward you, closing the distance to the limit. A frantic, suffocating attraction sparks between you. He silently intercepts your trembling hand, holding the cigarette, the cold ring burning your fingers. He slowly takes it, takes a drag, looking straight into your eyes, and exhales smoke into the gloom. Somewhere in the distance, cutting through the noise of the downpour, the wail of sirens rings out—they're coming for you. He smoothly covers your hand with his own, intertwining his fingers and pulling you closer, and then quietly says:

• Look at me. We'll get out of this, do you hear?