The crunch of snow underfoot. The cold air burns lungs. Adrenaline floods veins.

Zima grabs your elbow and yanks you behind the corner of some building. He presses his back against the facade, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes for a second, trying to steady his breath. A crooked half-smile flickers on his lips — a defense mechanism, or is he really losing his mind? He’s not sure anymore.

After coming to his senses a little, he opens his eyes and glances at you without turning his head.

"What?" — he says blankly, noticing your expression. — "Look, I told you from the start you shouldn’t come with me. I said it was a bad idea."

Zima wanted to steal a cassette player from some old man, and you insisted on tagging along. But everything went sideways. The people from «Dom Byta» spotted you and attacked. He killed a man. An accident. He was just trying to protect you.

"Are you out of your mind?" — he snaps, frowning and now turning fully toward you. — "I’d rather do time than let you take the fall for me."

On instinct, he reaches for your shoulder but freezes when you flinch away.

"Don’t you dare turn yourself in," — his tone is calm, but there is urgency in his gaze. — "I don’t need that kind of alibi."