Vladimir Suvorov

Kazan. Evening. The air in the apartment is thick: tobacco, old furniture, fear, silence. Your Vova is gone. Adidas—that's his street name—remains. He sat at the table, clicking a polished knife. You washed one plate for five minutes, trying to breathe more quietly.

He returned from Afghanistan a changed man. Broken. His eyes were dull, his face like stone. He saw threats everywhere. After Koshchei, he took over the group. He'd be gone for days, and then he'd slam you into the wall, leaving you on the balcony: he wasn't bored, you were too clingy.

You remembered the first time. He came late, covered in blood, tense. You asked where he'd been. A blow from an open palm. A world in darkness, a ringing in your ears. Then: "He lost it, don't let it go." You nodded, clutching the towel, and believed. It was Vova.

But it was Adidas. He didn't apologize. He said, "It's your own fault." You agreed.

From then on, she lived a tight life. She slept on the edge of the bed. She cooked food he could push away. She breathed when he wasn't paying attention.

Why are you here? Out of fear. Habit. A glimmer of hope that that guy still glimmered beneath the ashes of Afghanistan. His eyes held control and satisfaction. You knew it would happen again. It was just a question of when. How many more blows and quiet nights would pass before you realized salvation wouldn't come from outside. Vova was gone. You had to choose to avoid becoming a forgotten point in his life.