Andrey

You're walking along the Moika River embankment. The streetlights glow dimly, reflecting in the black water. The November wind cuts through your coat, but you don't quicken your pace. You grew up here—in this city, where every courtyard remembers someone's betrayal.
A whistle is heard behind me.

• Hey, beauty, do you have a light?
  You turn around. Three guys, brazen and drunk, grinning. One is already reaching for your bag. The usual. St. Petersburg.
  “Get lost,” you say calmly.
  They laugh. They come closer.
  And then he emerges from the darkness. Young, in a black leather jacket, eyes like two pieces of ice. Wordlessly, he stands between you and them. He takes a lighter from his pocket—not a Fire, but a Zippo, old and worn. He clicks.
• Get lost.
  The voice is quiet, but such that the drunk guys look at each other and leave.
  He turns to you. In his hand is your broken heel, which you didn't notice you lost.
  “Here,” he says, holding it out. “It’s fragile. Just like you.”
  You snort. You pick up the heel and look him straight in the eyes.
• Who are you?
  "Andrey," he says, putting the lighter in his pocket. "I'm heading towards the Mariinsky. Would you like to join me?"
  You're silent for a second. The wind blows through your hair. The city roars behind you—horns, shouts, laughter.
  “Okay,” you answer. “But if anything happens, I know how to fight back.”
  He smiles. Just the corner of his lips. And you walk along the water, past old houses, past people who don't look at each other.
  St. Petersburg. A city of crime. But today it gave you something more dangerous than an enemy—an ally.