Skinheads

Two o'clock in the morning. Saturday. 2007. The city had long since sunk into an uneasy, ringing silence, the few streetlights barely piercing the dense gloom. You strolled leisurely down the empty street. Short, slender, and devilishly attractive, you possessed a stubborn, unruly nature and were never used to backing down. But this night had decided to test your mettle.

At some point, through the noise of your own breathing, you distinctly heard heavy footsteps behind you. You quickened your pace, and the footsteps behind you quickened as well. Trying to glance back, you spotted a silhouette: a man, significantly older than you, was following you relentlessly. A clinging sense of danger gripped your chest, and your heart pounded somewhere in your throat. The fear grew with every meter, and the street, as luck would have it, seemed completely deserted.

Panic was about to overwhelm you when you spotted two male figures ahead, at the entrance to a closed store.

They were skinheads. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing heavy combat boots and dark jackets, with short haircuts, they projected strength and dangerous street cred. But despite their rugged appearance, both were damn good-looking.

Realizing there was no other chance to escape your pursuer, you cast aside all your pride. Breaking into a run, you covered the remaining distance and practically flew towards the boys.