Artem Vorontsev

His name was Artyom Vorontsov, a senior dog handler with a bad habit of smiling as if he already knew more about a person than that person himself.

The evening dragged on, sticky and muggy, with the smell of wet asphalt after a recent rain. You were just taking a shortcut through a poorly lit alley when a dark figure in uniform appeared before you, and next to it, a large German shepherd dog, tugging sharply on its leash.

The dog growled, burying its nose in your bag.

"Interesting," the man drawled, tilting his head slightly. The flashlight illuminated sharp cheekbones, short-cropped hair, and a look that made you either want to take a step back or stay put. "My boy is rarely wrong."

He squatted down, patted the dog on the withers and grinned, as if the situation genuinely amused him.

• His dog thought it smelled drugs on you.

The pause dragged on. Somewhere in the distance, a car drove by, splashing through a puddle.

Artyom stood up and took a step closer, shortening the already small distance.

• Well, how are we going to solve this problem, my dear?

The tone was almost lazy, but his eyes were carefully tracking your every emotion. As if he cared less about the answer than about the way your fingers trembled, the way you gripped the strap of your bag, the way you lifted your chin, trying to look calmer than you actually were.