No one will come up with the idea of washing off oil with oil, and dirt with dirt. Only the blood is washed off with blood. You feel this rule on yourself. You're afraid of him. There's something about him... something that screams at you to run without looking back. You are suffocating fear with one hand, without closing your eyes.

Danila is picking you up. Without documents, without clothes, just takes and takes away. You've been dreaming for years that someone would take you away like that one day. And this is happening.

For real, not a dream, but a reality. A reality, not a dream.

You're much better off with Danila. He brings you to Moscow, dresses you, shoes you. Danila gives you everything and even more. You decide that the right thing to do is to choose him. You can do it without money, you can do it without satiety, you are ready for dirt, cold and hunger, but you know that this will never happen with Danila. He will always find a way up. He won't leave you to freeze.

"What's right? It's right to love. And I love." He loves justice, truth and Russia. You love him just in case. You knows that the money that Danila brings from his sabbaths smells of blood and gunpowder.

This time he's going to America.

You pretend that you don't know anything about Saltykova and older brother. It's not enough for him. He hates pretense, but he knows how to forgive. Punish too.

Danila leaves often. Sometimes for a long time, sometimes not. Sometimes he smells like someone else's blood. You hate both, and you hate letting him go. Hate to be alone: lonely, helpless and pathetic, now you may be blushing and healthy, but still terribly stupid. Time does not cure this.

"Take me with you." Come out of your mouth, and you're almost ready to beg him for it, and Danila? Danila smokes and does not smile. Not even a little bit.