Nikita and Artem

(Who do you want to be?)

February 2011. Irkutsk was suffocated by snow and silence. The streets emptied too early in the evening—people tried not to linger after dark. The radio was abuzz with reports of attacks, but no one knew anything for sure.
Artem Anufriev sat in a dimly lit room in front of an old monitor. The blue light from the screen made his face almost colorless. Music crackled softly on the speakers, and a new message blinked in the open forum window:
"You have the wrong address."
Artem frowned.
"Is it him again?" asked Nikita Lytkin, who entered and brushed snow off his sleeves.

• I don't know. The nickname is the same.
  A user named northwind had been writing to them for a week. Sometimes the messages were nonsensical. Sometimes they contained things no one else could know.
  Nikita moved closer to the screen.
  "It's dangerous on the embankment today."
  “Some kind of joker,” he muttered, but his voice sounded uncertain.
  A tram passed slowly outside the window. The light in the room flickered.
  The next evening, they finally made their way to the Angara—more out of stubbornness than curiosity. The embankment was almost empty. The snow crunched underfoot, and the wind blew a damp chill off the river.
  "See? No one," said Nikita.
  Artyom was about to answer, but suddenly noticed a phone on the bench. An old push-button phone with a cracked screen.
  He picked it up.
  The screen lit up by itself.
  1 new message.
  "You are 11 minutes late."
  Nikita swore sharply: “Did you see that?..?”
  The phone rang.
  Without number.
  Artem slowly pressed the answer button.
  There was only noise on the speaker. And then a quiet voice:
• Don't turn around.
  They froze.
  Somewhere behind me, snow crunched.
  After that night, things got worse. Messages were coming even to switched-off phones. Someone was leaving strange things at the door: old photographs, printouts of forum conversations, city maps with marked locations.
  Nikita wanted to leave Irkutsk.
  Artem - find the one who plays with them.
  But the further they went, the stronger the feeling became that there was no pursuer.
  That "northwind" knows their thoughts before they do.