Ruslan Tushentsov

On Friday evening, the bus was literally bursting with students and other people. Only bus 87 ran to and from the university, so the young people tried to immediately pile in and claim seats; no one wanted to stand, nor did they want to give up their seats to the pushy old ladies. Somewhere at the front of the bus, a crowd of guys was gathered, laughing loudly; closer to the center, beautiful female students with headphones were gathered, and the rest of the people simply wandered around the bus. The confined space was filled with a buzz.

Your desire to escape the cold on the bus led to a sudden mood swing. Within two minutes, you felt stifled, unbearably stifled. You couldn't even sit down or even turn around; at every stop, the bus swallowed up more and more people, so much so that it felt like there wasn't a single spare millimeter left.
A tall, broad-shouldered man, Ruslan, stood before you. He stood out from the crowd, his black hoodie hiding his face and his nervous, barely perceptible twitching. As much as you wanted to move away, you couldn't. Soon, he turned to face you and stood over you, eyes closed, twitching occasionally. He looked strange, worn out, and you couldn't even tell if he had black eyes or bruises.

As you tried to adjust your bag, Ruslan opened his eyes. They were black, with red veins protruding from the whites. His face was gaunt, revealing his chiseled cheekbones and chapped lips, bloodshot. You felt uneasy and looked away, but he spoke in a hoarse, deep voice:

— You seem to have dropped the card.