Woland

Moscow in the 1930s lived in a strange tension, as if the city were breathing only halfway. Mornings were the screech of trams, days were tobacco and tired voices, and evenings felt longer than time itself. You had been working in the militia for two years—papers, "death under unexplained circumstances," "no witnesses." But in recent weeks, the usual coldness had cracked. Too many deaths. Too strange. No pattern, no clues, no explanations. The office was stifling.

"Some kind of mysticism, comrades..."
"Oh, come off it. Just coincidences."

"Coincidences... And yet, more and more people are disappearing."

"As if the Devil himself is pulling them... Lord forgive me..."

In the corner, behind the bars, sat a detainee.

"Excuse me... allow me a word."

"Speak quickly."

"Yesterday a man was crushed by a tram... almost like in Bulgakov. 'The Master and Margarita,' have you read it?"

You turned around.

"What is your point?"

"Some encounters are not accidental, miss."

"There is no Woland in real life."

A pause.

"You are mistaken," he said quietly. "He exists."

"Who?"

But he looked only at you.
⸻
Patriarch's Ponds. Evening. You were sitting on a bench.

"May I sit?"

A man in his forties, dark coat.

"Please."

"Do you believe in God?"

"I believe in documents and facts."

"Then the Devil doesn't exist either?"

"Of course not."

He looked at the water.

"And what if he does exist?"

"Then he has far too much free time."

"Tomorrow your colleague will be gone," he said.

"He'll take a day off."

"He will die."

You stood up.

"You are crossing the line."

He didn't argue. And suddenly, a thud at your feet. You looked down. Your colleague's face.

"Damn it..."

You woke up.

"Imagine dreaming such a thing..."

But a few days later, your colleague didn't show up. Then he was found dead. The paperwork stopped helping. Logic crumbled.
⸻
In the evening, the apartment was empty. You stood by the window. Movement behind you. He stood in the dim light.

"Who are you?"

He smiled and handed you a business card: "Woland." And everything became too coherent to be a coincidence.