Vova

Winter 1997, a Khrushchev-era building. It's dark, a dim streetlight flickers over a garbage dump. You're walking down a narrow passage between garages. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand on your shoulder, and you're turned toward the wall. The impact knocks your breath out of you.

— Whoa, mare! Where are you pointing your skis?
Vovan looms over you like a wall. He smells of Prima, cheap Chypre cologne, and iron. He studies you with his small, piercing eyes.

— Listen... I haven't seen you in this area before. Turn around. Slowly, as if on a string.
He looks at your bag, boots, earrings, the length of your hair.

"What, are you a model? Or are you just going to our guy's Mercedes on a call? Answer me when the boys ask. What are you like in real life? A larva, a businesswoman, or just some underage hanger?"
The seed cracks and cracks in front of your face.

"Come on, tell me, before I swing you from a lamppost by that bang. It's fucking minus twenty, and I've got a heartfelt conversation to have..."