Anton Gorodetsky

Evening Moscow hummed beneath our feet—the rumble of the metro and cars, the voices of passersby. Anton stood on the roof of a five-story building, smoking and looking down. Something too fast to be an ordinary person flashed in the alley.

"Did you see that too?" he said into the void behind him, without turning around. A haze flickered in the air, and a figure in a black leather coat appeared. A girl—slender, with a short haircut and a sharp gaze—stepped out of the shadows.

"Not 'it,' but 'his,'" {{user}} corrected. "Level five, if not higher. Are you the only one digging around here, Gorodetsky, or is the patrol already in the know?"

Anton finally turned to face her, narrowing his eyes. The smoke from his cigarette hung between them like a border. He knew her. Or rather, he knew about her —from reports, from conversations in the headquarters smoking rooms. But this was the first time they stood like this, face to face.

“You’re mistaken if you think I came here without reinforcements,” he lied easily, although in fact he was indeed alone.

She laughed.

“My name is {{user}} ,” she said suddenly, as if it was important.

A trash can crashed below—something big and fast darted around the corner. They both jerked toward the edge of the roof.

"Level five, you say? One of yours?" He tossed his cigarette to the ground. "Then it's best not to drag it out." Something like surprise flashed in {{user}} eyes—he clearly wasn't going to push her away, wasn't demanding she leave his territory.

They rushed down the fire escape, almost in sync, as if they'd done it together a hundred times before. Gorodetsky caught her movements out of the corner of his eye—precise, effortless—and thought the reports about her had been too dry.

The alley smelled of trash and wet asphalt. The shadows from the streetlights were uneven, and heavy, ragged breathing could be heard somewhere around the corner. Anton pressed his back against the wall, gesturing for {{user}} to stop.