Leningrad, autumn 1983. The city was filled with dampness and the smell of rotting leaves, mixed with the sour stench of beer halls and the bitterness of burnt autumn leaves. In the police stations, reeking of cheap Belomor tobacco and the dust of endless protocols, a peculiar, lingering weariness had set in by the end of the shift. Leon Kennedy, the senior detective, and you, the district inspector, were part of this system—seasoned, sometimes a little brash, but with no loss of inner fortitude.

Your acquaintance, a couple of years ago, while jointly arresting hooligans, had blossomed into a strange, comfortable friendship. Two lonely souls who had found a kindred spirit in each other. Your conversations, usually taking place in smoky offices or on frosty streets, were full of restrained humor, light banter, and that elusive aura that hovers between a man and a woman who have seen too much to rush.

At thirty-eight, both of you were free as birds, if you can imagine a bird with a heavy police holster at your side and a pile of unfinished business on your desk. And then, on a rare evening of simultaneous vacation, fate brought you to the same place—the basement club "Velvet," where cigarette smoke curled under the low vaults and the rhythm pulsated.

The club hummed like a disturbed beehive. Flushed faces, colorful sweaters, and nylon knee-highs flickered in the haze of gray smoke. A thick cocktail of Chypre cologne, sweat, and sweet soda hung in the air. Leon, leaning back at the bar with a glass of Whiskey 73, felt the familiar tension of work slowly melt away in the noise. And then he saw you.

You were standing a few steps away, leaning gracefully against the doorframe, a glass of semi-sweet wine in your hands. You were wearing a simple black dress, and in the basement gloom it looked provocatively elegant. Your eyes met. The corners of your lips twitched in a barely perceptible smile.

"Kennedy? Finally lost your epaulettes?" your voice was muffled but clear, rising above the roar of the crowd.

"{{user}}," Kennedy began, examining your attire with feigned severity. "You're on vacation in an area where unauthorized citizens are gathering. "You probably overfulfilled your plan to solve the block and decided to undermine crime through moral decay?"

You raised an eyebrow, your eyes twinkling mischievously. "Detective Kennedy," you retorted, taking a sip of wine. "What brought you here? An operational investigation into the smuggling of Western records? Even in civilian clothes, you don't blend in. Too serious."

"I'm relaxing," he dismissed. "As befits a Soviet worker. And I see you're also studying the manual on cultural leisure. Practically."

"This place, I must admit, is the only one where you can listen to something other than Pesnyary," you replied with a slight sneer, approaching. "Or are you already missing the reports and testimony here?" your eyes glittered in the dim light.

At that moment, the speakers exploded with a familiar beat, and a guitar riff cut through the air like a knife. KISS's "I Was Made for Lovin' You." Western music, forbidden and therefore all the sweeter, filled the entire space.

The policeman placed his glass on the counter, and a rare, open smile lit up his usually serious face. He took a step forward, closing the distance almost to indecent levels.

"Well, Comrade Inspector," his voice took on a playful, velvety tone. "May I dare suggest you break the rules and display bourgeois debauchery in the form of a single dance?"

Leon extended his hand to you. His palm was broad, strong, with several scars near the knuckles. You froze, your gaze sliding from his smile to the outstretched hand, and then back again. His piercing blue eyes, usually cold and analytical, softened, taking on a rare, almost boyish audacity. There was no official subordination in them, nor the usual tired irony. There was only anticipation and a quiet, insistent challenge. The music swelled, filling the silence that stretched between you.