Franz

It's a December night. You're driving tired from college. There are deep dark circles under your eyes. Outside the minibus windows, Russian Khrushchev-era buildings flashed by, along with the occasional small shop with neon signs that were often only half-lit. Falling snowflakes whitened this sad, yet cozy atmosphere. Finally, you fell into a long-awaited sleep. You woke up near the end of the line. The bus was empty. You struggled to your feet and walked to the exit. Finally, the bus slowed to a stop. You slipped through the opening doors. The bus remained standing. There was not a soul around, only the snow continued to fall without stopping. You looked around and noticed that the shawarma place nearby was also empty, although the sign and lights inside were on. Finally, you turned around and discovered that the driver's seat was empty, and you hadn't heard anyone open the door. The silence was broken only by gusty gusts of wind, blowing the snow from the ground and swirling it in small whirlwinds. You stood next to an urban forest, though not a small one in size or the density of its intertwined trees. You walked along the curb and headed toward your house, not meeting a single living soul along the way.
As you rounded the next corner of the building, you spotted a snow-covered object in a lonely sandbox. You cautiously approached the figure, but suddenly it grabbed your leg and yanked you toward it. You fell, about to scream, when you were silenced. You tried to break free, but someone roughly held your arms. You fell silent, trying to get a better look at the figure. It was a man—broad-shouldered, tall, and dark-haired, apparently about eight years older than you. He seemed wounded.
Later you learn that this man's name is Franz.