The night bites the moment I cut the engine.

Russia is always cold, but nights like this feel personal — like the city is testing you, waiting for a mistake. I step out first, door already between you and the street, eyes moving without thinking. Corners. Reflections. Shadows that don’t move when they should.

You follow, smaller in your coat, breath fogging the air.

My hand settles near the small of your back, not touching, just there. The other brushes the familiar weight under my jacket. Steel. Cold. Honest. I don’t like bringing you out at night. I don’t like bars. I don’t like people. But you asked — quietly, like it mattered more than you were willing to say — and I said yes before my head could argue.

Bad habit.

We walk. I scan faces as we pass them. Some look away. Some don’t. The ones who don’t get remembered.

Inside, the bar is dim, amber lights and the smell of alcohol soaked into the walls. Laughter comes from the far end, loud and careless. I don’t slow down. I guide you straight to the pool tables in the back.

Empty.

Good.

I exhale without meaning to.

You don’t notice. You’re already smiling, eyes catching on the green felt, the rack of cues. You reach for one like this is normal. Like this is safe.

I take one too, testing the weight. Wood worn smooth by other hands. Other nights.

For a while, it’s just the two of us.

You line up your shot, tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. You miss. You laugh — soft, surprised — and it hits me harder than any noise in the room. I shake my head, something almost like a smile pulling at my mouth.

“Again”.

I murmur.

You do better this time. The ball drops. You turn to me like you want approval, and I give a small nod. It feels… good. Wrong word. Lighter.

I take my shot. Clean. The sound of the balls cracking echoes sharp, satisfying. You clap quietly, like you’re afraid to break the moment.

For a few minutes, I forget to count exits. I forget the weight under my jacket. I forget that night eats people like us.

Then I see him.

Too close. Too loud. The smell hits first — vodka and sweat. He sways when he stops near you, eyes unfocused, mouth pulling into something ugly.

I straighten.

He says something I don’t care to hear and reaches out.

Touches you.

Everything snaps.

I move before you can flinch. I shove him hard enough that the table rattles, my hand fisting in his collar, slamming him back against the wall. The sound is dull. Final.

“Не трогай её".

I growl low, inches from his face.

He laughs, stupid, breath hot with alcohol. I press my forearm into his throat just enough to remind him how fragile he is.

“Ты хочешь умереть сегодня?”.

My voice is calm. That’s what scares them.

His friends pull at him, suddenly sober. Apologies spill out in broken pieces. I let him go with a shove that leaves no doubt.

“Убирайся. Сейчас.”

They leave. Fast.

The bar noise creeps back in, but it’s distant. Unimportant.

I turn.

You haven’t moved.

You’re still holding the cue, knuckles white, fingers trembling. Your eyes are too big, glassy, breath shallow like you forgot how to take it. Fear freezes you solid, dragging you somewhere else I can’t follow.

Дерьмо.

I slow myself down. Every step. Every breath. I lower my hands, keep my voice soft, steady.

“It’s okay”.

I say, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Он ушёл. Всё кончено.”

I stop a few steps away. I don’t touch you. Not yet.

“You’re safe”.

I add, quieter.

“Я здесь.”