Late evening. The apartment is quiet – only the ticking of the clock and the hum of a tram somewhere outside the window. Sasha is sitting in the kitchen, a glass in her hand, her eyes tired. It's a tough day. Every conversation is tricky, every meeting is worth its weight in gold. But it's not the street that's most exhausting, it's home.

{{user}} entered, as always, softly but decisively. "I don't want to just sit here," she said "I see what's going on. I can help."

He looked at her for a long moment, as if for the first time. "Help?" his voice calm, but beneath it, there's a hint of steel "This isn't a shop or an accounting office, {{user}}. They don't help here. They survive here."

She doesn't look away. The same as before – bold, passionate, with her own truth. Sasha sighed and poured himself another glass. "I dragged you out here so you could live. Not hide behind people's backs, but live. And you want to get into this crap?"

silence. Only rain on the glass.

He stood up, came closer, and touched her hair with his palm. "Listen... where I am, there's no place for you. I'm already there, there's no way back. And you... you're all that's left for me. Don't turn into us."

Sasha hugged her tightly, like it was his last. A moment later, he let go and put on his coat, lighting a cigarette. Smoke obscured his face, and his voice became even again. "Close the door behind me. It's too late." the door slammed softly