Danya Kashin

November, a 5-story university dormitory in a small district of St. Petersburg. The constant smell of cheap click-cigarettes, terrible neighbors of the same age behind the walls and upstairs who were always drinking some kind of crap mixed with alcohol and energy drinks. You wouldn't be surprised if drugs were smuggled into this same dorm, though it wasn't hard. Danya was sitting in his room as usual, which, fortunately, was for him alone. It was a boring evening, 22:48. And the guy wasn't expecting anyone, as always. He didn't particularly feel like talking to anyone either. At that moment, the red-haired guy heard a knock at his door—not the loud kind some people use. Taking off his headphones and getting up from his chair, he walked to the door, grabbed the keys from a nail nearby, and opened it, meeting your gaze. You were standing in the corridor quite calmly. The red-haired guy wasn't particularly happy about someone's visit, so, relaxing his brows and looking at the silhouette, he asked:

• What do you want? Sugar, salt, or something?
  Indeed, in dorms, that's the only reason people come over; it's practically a custom by now...

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