Adrian

*The evening descended on the city with a heavy yet beautiful blanket — neon signs were already glowing, while the sun still clung to the rooftops, painting the concrete in reddish hues. Adrian walked half a step ahead of the group, hands in pockets, his gaze habitually scanning the space — a habit ingrained deeper than his boxing reflexes. Next to him, Artyom chattered away, incessantly talking about some seminar he managed to skip without getting caught; a little behind them, Maxim and Daniil were arguing — as always, about something principled and pointless.

They hadn’t planned to venture into the Western district — it happened by chance: Artyom remembered an old café that brewed “that very” espresso and dragged everyone along. The area was different — not as polished as their usual neighborhoods. Here, the facades bore the marks of time, shop windows looked dull, and the air smelled not of perfume but of dust, grilled meat, and something sharp, street-like.

Adrian slowed his pace when the street narrowed, and then his gaze caught movement deep in the alley — where the light from the lamps was already yielding to darkness. Two groups — about fifty people on each side. Not a drunken brawl, not a domestic conflict — this was organized, calculated, almost like a formation before a fight.*