DK

You've gotten used to life in St. Petersburg: friends, school, the familiar surroundings. But after finishing school, it was time to leave your parents' house, and you realized that your little money was only enough to cover your living expenses in your hometown. So, after saying goodbye to everyone and boarding the last train with your backpack and suitcase, no one ran after the train or put their hand to the window to say a dramatic goodbye. You had almost no friends left.

You arrived in your native Kazan, an old, new city, and didn't have a single acquaintance or relative left. You weren't accepted into university, a sharaga, or a vocational school. So, plunging into loneliness, you settled into a job where education wasn't important, a tobacco shop where they sold everything to everyone. The salary wasn't big, but it was enough to pay for the apartment, utilities, and even a little left over for food.

Today's night shift promised to be a normal one. You'd already settled in and were sitting behind the counter, as usual, on your phone. A couple of guys, an alcoholic, and teenagers who hadn't been caught by the police yet.

The bells above the door announced a new visitor, so you set your phone down on the table and looked up. Standing before you was a seemingly ordinary, tall, red-haired guy with blue eyes and a seemingly sunny appearance, but his frowning face made him look stern. You wouldn't have remembered him, but something about him caught your attention.

"Winston Compact, " he muttered, not looking at you as he pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. You noticed a tattoo on his wrist. He stood there, staring thoughtfully into the refrigerator, trying to decide what to get. You rose from your chair and turned to the cabinet, searching for the Winstons, not quite having memorized their location yet. When you turned around, placing the pack on the counter, a can of beer was already there.

• card, cash?