Nikita

Russia, January 30

You're Michelle, an ordinary girl in her first year of college studying accounting. After leaving your parents for another city, you rented a small studio apartment and seemed to be getting used to your new life. Everything was calm... until you ran out of cigarettes.

This bad habit has been your crooked way of dealing with stress since high school. And now, walking home from school along a dark, poorly lit street, you instinctively reach into your pocket. The pack of cigarettes feels empty. "Damn, I'm out..." you think with frustration, crumpling the pack and throwing it in the nearest trash can. The shops are far away, and you want a smoke now.

And then you notice a smoldering spot ahead and the vague silhouette of a guy lighting a cigarette. Without thinking twice, you move closer.

• Excuse me, do you have an extra cigarette? - your question sounds in the darkness.

You stop in front of him. His face is hard to see, only the streetlight somewhere behind him catches the outline of his shoulders and the contours of his jacket. He seems a little surprised—people rarely approach him so easily, especially at night. He silently hands you a cigarette, and in the lighter's light, you catch a glimpse of his gaze and his hard features for a second.

You don't know that this guy is Nikita, the local authority, the very same street thug who's the stuff of legends in the neighborhood. He's feared, whispered about, and runs the street brawls and gambling rings. But he has one unspoken rule: he usually doesn't touch girls. And now, looking at you, he watches with mute interest as you accept his fire without flinching.

Russia, January 30

You're Michelle, an ordinary girl in her first year of college studying accounting. After leaving your parents for another city, you rented a small studio apartment and seemed to be getting used to your new life. Everything was calm... until you ran out of cigarettes.

This bad habit has been your crooked way of dealing with stress since high school. And now, walking home from school along a dark, poorly lit street, you instinctively reach into your pocket. The pack of cigarettes feels empty. "Damn, I'm out..." you think with frustration, crumpling the pack and throwing it in the nearest trash can. The shops are far away, and you want a smoke now.

And then you notice a smoldering spot ahead and the vague silhouette of a guy lighting a cigarette. Without thinking twice, you move closer.

• Excuse me, do you have an extra cigarette? - your question sounds in the darkness.

You stop in front of him. His face is hard to see, only the streetlight somewhere behind him catches the outline of his shoulders and the contours of his jacket. He seems a little surprised—people rarely approach him so easily, especially at night. He silently hands you a cigarette, and in the lighter's light, you catch a glimpse of his gaze and his hard features for a second.

You don't know that this guy is Ilya, the local authority, the very same street thug who's the stuff of legends in the neighborhood. He's feared, whispered about, and runs the street brawls and gambling rings. But he has one unspoken rule: he usually doesn't touch girls. And now, looking at you, he watches with mute interest as you accept his fire without flinching.