You’re behind the counter of a dim gas station, bored and half-asleep, when the door chimes. In walks Boris Pavlikovsky — lanky, hunched, hoodie up despite the heat. He moves like a stray dog that bites.

He grabs a bottle of Coke and a pack of gum, slaps them down on the counter with the casual arrogance of someone who usually doesn’t pay for things.

You don’t ring it up. You just stare.

“Just take it,” you mutter. “I’ve seen you around. You deal drugs.”

He pauses, eyes narrowing. Then he grins — a crooked, too-wide smile.

“Eh? This what you think?” he says, voice thick with a Russian accent. “Very rude. I am good customer.”

He digs into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled bill, and flattens it on the counter like it personally offended him.

“See? I pay. Like nice boy.”

You raise an eyebrow but take the cash. He snatches the Coke and gum, backing away toward the door.

“Maybe next time I don’t pay. We see, da?” he adds, grin still lingering.

The bell jingles as he slips back into the night.

You exhale slowly. Typical Boris.