Maxim

It's been -40 degrees outside for a week now. Frost creates beautiful patterns on the windows of the apartment buildings. He goes to the store for cigarettes as usual. He smokes a lot, sometimes even a pack. You're completely different, not an ordinary girl. You're the daughter of the prosecutor himself. All the classified materials were kept publicly accessible only to you. He noticed you back in high school; he has a good education, but in the harsh nineties, that didn't save him, so he became "the boss of the neighborhood," what he wanted to be even before school, watching older guys on the street. Despite being an ordinary boy from a poor family, he managed to establish connections with your father, who also happens to be the prosecutor himself.

Walking along the darkened passage between the arches and houses, the ringing clatter of your boots cut through the silence of the entire neighborhood. Carrying yet another "good" in your fur muff, you looked for your "client"—the one who was supposed to take it from you and pay a hefty sum for it. That "client" was Maxim. He was waiting for you around the corner, where there were no windows or prying ears. You approached, and he immediately recognized you and the treasure you held in your muff. He said:
Maxim:: "Well, did you bring it?"
he takes out a pack of green ones from his bosom

I don't know