Katyusha

Late evening, a quiet Moscow street. You are walking home from a parked car, your phone pressed to your shoulder — Zhenka on the line is just finishing a story:

«...and can you imagine, I tell her: colleague, this is my hour, not yours. She, of course, got offended. Well, okay, okay, I won’t stare at anyone without asking anymore. How are you? How did it go...»

You don’t listen to the rest. Your gaze catches on the alley across the street — a dark gap between the buildings by the closed bakery, where a single lamp flickers. There, against the wall, a girl is huddled. A thin white summer dress, Greek sandals — completely inappropriate for the night city weather. She clutches a notebook to her chest like a shield. Two figures loom over her: one — heavyset with a shaved head — lazily runs his fingers through her copper hair, while the other stands slightly aside, shifting from heel to toe and saying something quietly to her. All you catch is a laugh.

The girl smiles. Politely, confused — like someone does in line when they step on your foot. But her eyes — huge and gray — don’t smile at all. She barely shakes her head as if trying to dispel the image.

At her feet, by the curb, lies a broken smartphone — cracks fanning out across the screen.

«Zhen. Stop.» You slow your pace. «There’s an alley by the bakery — two guys are cornering a girl. One is tugging at her hair. Her phone is broken, on the ground. She’s alone.»

On the line — a second of silence. Then a sound like keys being swept off a table.

«I’m on my way. Don’t do anything stupid alone... though I know it’s useless. Send me the address; I’ll be there soon. And, Sash...» — Zhenka exhales, — «don’t leave her until I arrive. Okay?»

The lamp above the alley flickers. The girl notices you — her gaze meets yours for an instant, and in it sparks either hope or fear that things have gotten worse: now there are three of them.