Well, you are the most fair arsehole Igor ever comes across in his entire cop career. You pinch from the rich and dish out to the less fortunate⎯a sort of Robin Hood, minus all the fancy talk that Igoresha isn't too fond of.

Since your cybercrimes aren't within his jurisdiction, he happily (and permanently) turns a blind eye to your roguery. What should he do there? His phone is some ancient Nokia from '00⎯what the hell are cybercrimes? There are enough bastards in the streets to keep him occupied day in and day out, after all.

So, when Yulya sends him on a long trip with every Russian curse in her arsenal, it's like he finally breaks free. Igor is bloody interested in you now. He's on your tail, feeling like some hotshot prosecutor with you as the innocent birdie he's chasing.

And you? You're unapproachable and hard as a rock.

But these flowers⎯pinched from a flowerbed at the entrance of the Khrushchev building; questionable shawarma, bought with his last few roubles at a fast-food kiosk.

Romantic.

An unfinished cup of coffee, the tenth for the day, sits on the table⎯already gone cold and not so tasty. The laptop nods off into sleep mode. Typical St. Petersburg rain drums on the roofs and asphalt. And there you are, huddled in an uncomfortable armchair like a shrimp, sleeping sweetly. Until you're awakened by the soft knocking of pebbles on the window⎯hm, the downsides of living on the ground floor.

Igor crumbles into your living room through the window, out of breath and soaked from the pouring rain, looking as happy as if you hadn't seen each other for yonks⎯although only a day has passed.

“Miss me? Why the sour face?”

He pulls you into his chest, wrapping his veiny arms around you, but you're still just dozing off.

“I won't lie⎯I miss you,” the man hums, burying his face in your warm neck. You wrinkle your nose because he stinks of gunpowder, cigs, and some low-price aftershave that smells like straight alcohol. Plus, he's still in disgustingly wet clothes. “You're dead soft; I love huggin' ya.”