Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The damp banknotes reeked of other people’s hands.

He dumped the bundles of five-thousand-ruble bills onto the plastic table. Not much—he’d seen thicker rolls. Just a routine crypto cash-out. He didn’t want to touch them: dirty money from the internet never turns clean. And these stank on top of it.

Zhenya didn’t take gigs like this often. And right now, it looked like a mistake.

A lean, bearded man came up to the table, raked the cash toward himself, and started counting each bundle. Sliding the rubber bands off and on, he mouthed numbers in silence while Zhenya stood by and waited, patient.

Satisfied, the man grunted and turned to him.

“Fast work, kid. Did you keep it off the cameras?”

The blond nodded. “Number plates are under the seat.” Just looking at this guy made his nerves prickle; he wanted out from under that probing stare as fast as possible.

Zhenya slipped a hand into the right pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cigarettes. He flipped the lighter, bit the filter to pop the menthol bead, and drew in the bitter smoke.

The tension crawled down his spine.

“You can toss those. Tomorrow, take the car in for a respray. I’ll tell you where to get it.”

Zhenya nodded absently. He didn’t let the cigarette leave his mouth. The smoke stung his eyes, but he didn’t even squint.

The car was strange. Built by someone who loved speed more than common sense. Outside—a completely anonymous Honda Civic for city traffic. Inside—a turbocharged animal. Tuned front to back: a JDM contract engine[1], rebuilt internals. The thing roared at the lightest touch of the gas. Pure insanity under the hood. Not for doing two hundred kph down a prospekt[2], not for showing off. For dirty work—robberies, snatch-and-grabs, and get-the-hell-out. To vanish so fast your tail would be left choking on dust.[3]

He was about to leave when they stopped him.

“Evgeny.”

He turned.

“Here. A little extra—for how quick you were.”
The man pulled a bundle from his pocket. Inside—clear ziplock bags with red seals, full of candy-colored pills. Looked like sweets, didn’t smell like them at all.

“Just need you to pass it along.”

The blond looked at the package like it was a snake in plastic.

“Not my lane,” Zhenya said flatly, already running through how he’d bolt. Should’ve left right away. “I do cars. I don’t touch this.”

“Evgeny, you don’t understand,” the voice went hard. “Either you do us a favor, or you leave here in the trunk.”

Shapes rustled in the dark behind him. One lifted a hand and metal flashed under the lamp for a split second.

Silence.

He looked the man in the face and understood his decision was already a done deal. Like a stoplight. Red—stop. Green—live. He could feel sweat gather under his collar and a cold hollowness open in his gut.
Zhenya knew a little about the bearded one. A bad reputation ran ahead of him like a siren on a cop car: someone once owed him; they found the guy a week later, not walking anymore. Turning this down would cost more than it was worth.

He gave a nervous half-smile, nodded, and slid the bag into his leather jacket. Today, Zhenya chose to keep moving.

“Alright. I got it.”

The blond left without a goodbye. He didn’t get into this kind of thing often—only when other doors slammed shut and his pockets went empty.

Zhenya stepped outside, glanced up at the night sky smudged with city glow, and headed for the car.

Under the awning, his Bimmer waited, bored. E60[4]—a fucking princess with a temper, messing with his head worse than any high-maintenance girl. She always wanted something.
He dropped into the soft seat and shut the door. The cabin smelled of expensive leather, clean surfaces, and his perfume.

“Well, baby,” his hand slid along the wheel, “let’s go home.”

Somewhere above, in warm offices with views of the bay, big men were moving their pieces again. And Zhenya was just one of them.

In the rearview, a forgotten purple backpack peeked out from behind the seat. In the afternoon he’d driven his niece to dance practice, and now he was sitting on the edge of St. Petersburg with pockets full of pills. Fuck. He’d sworn off running deliveries.

Zhenya exhaled hard, slid the key into the slot, and hit start. The instrument cluster washed the cabin in a soft red glow, and the engine answered with a low growl—like a mean animal recognizing its handler. He clicked the shifter into D, cranked the wheel, and rolled out, tires skimming carefully over the gravel.

The rain was back, misting the city. Zhenya drove in silence, choosing not to turn on the music. The heater hummed, and the wipers swept the glass in wide arcs.

His watch read 04:13. He wanted sleep, but he’d ended up by a raised drawbridge[5], postcard-pretty.

The cigarette was his last—before bed he meant to fill the tank and grab a couple packs at the gas station.

He pulled over where he shouldn’t and got out, letting the river wind slap his face and soak his hoodie, a chill biting through him. Hands in his pockets, his fingers found the bag of that disgusting shit. He wanted to pitch it straight into the Neva[6]. Instead, he clamped the cigarette between his teeth, yanked up his hood, and pulled out his phone.

His contacts held maybe a couple dozen names. He picked the one he needed and hit call—one ring, two, three… A soft, sleepy “Allo”[7] answered.

“Hey, Liza. What’s up?”

A noisy sigh. She hesitated. Fabric rustled somewhere.

“I’m fine. Zhenya… have you looked at the time?”

“I have. I’ve got something for you.” His palm squeezed the bundle in his pocket. “You free?”

Silence. Only her breath in the receiver.

“Forty minutes. Don’t buzz the intercom—I’ll open the door.”

She hung up first.

Zhenya smirked. Liza—pretty girl, five years older, who’d traded pussy for pills. With her it was simple—but only with a condom. He didn’t “sleep” with Liza—he just pushed in, bled off the pressure.

Her warm body was like a bath after a freezing street: in, sit, thaw, out. She took what she needed and stayed satisfied. Without “gifts,” there was no point in coming over.

Frankly, any hole would’ve done. He didn’t attach to anyone—too dangerous. And one-nighters annoyed him no less than regulars: with the first there were too many faces; with the second, too many expectations he wasn’t built to meet. Girls blurred into window mannequins: equally pretty, polished, tended—none of them sparked want. No curiosity, not even a hard-on. Just boredom and indifference.

At least Liza kept quiet and didn’t ask questions—he liked that. He didn’t know why, but he kept bringing her roses. Maybe because she never expected them.

He took the last drag and got back in the car. The engine came alive with its familiar soft note, like it was calming him down. The blond pulled a U across the double yellow and followed the nav to a 24/7 flower shop. The bridge behind him gleamed like a wedding cake.

He didn’t give a fuck.
Only the emptiness, the taste of smoke, and the lethal weight in his left pocket.

Zhenya sat on the bed, looking down between his legs. Cool water still tracked over skin fresh from the shower—down from damp hair to his lower back and across tight, lean abs.

A soft pink backlight made the room strangely cozy. The light flattered Liza’s full breasts, swaying in time with the motion of her head.

She didn’t close her eyes. Liza watched him—fixed, pupils blown wide. Looked like the “candy” had hit; she was already high.

Zhenya’s gaze slid to her neat nipples, to the smooth thighs near his long legs. The body—classy as hell; anyone would get an erection.
Only he felt hollow inside.

The doc with the fancy title had sworn he was healthy as a bull, no issues with erectile function. Just cut down on the cigarettes and the stress, he’d said.
Yeah. Tell it to this thick blond head.

Liza’s thin fingers with red nails wrapped his cock at the base as she bent toward his pubic bone, letting out a little moan—and the vibration traveled pleasantly over his skin.

He slid his hands into her long dark hair, pulling her closer, nearly pressing her nose into his groin. It all felt very strange. Liza was putting in the work—no question. She sucked until her lips were swollen, and the hand she used to stroke him, working the foreskin back, grew slick with spit. But all that time Zhenya’s cock only stiffened a little, never fully hard.

She eased off, letting his cock slip free with a wet pop, and moved to his balls, rolling them between her fingers. It was obvious she was struggling to focus on what was happening.

“Hey… you’re not—” She paused, searching for words. “You’re clean, right? Not using?”

He nodded lazily, still watching her thin fingers glide over his skin.

“Guess I’m just too fucked up,” he said, dropping onto his back to sprawl across the bed, eyes on the ceiling. “Sorry.”

The mattress dipped under another body—Liza pressed to him and gave his hand a calming squeeze.

“You need more sleep and less smoking,” she said, and Zhenya smirked at the absurdity.

Says the girl who downed Molly[8] and chased it with God knows what just to blast off faster. Some saint. Mother Teresa, my ass.

“Stay here. Get some rest. Turn your phones off. And… thanks for the treats.”
“You’re welcome,” the blond said, closing his eyes as her spit slowly flowed down from his cock to his balls.

Through Liza’s vanilla-sweet scent he caught the fresher note of roses.

Zhenya sat alone, one ear on the radio hissing from a cheap speaker. The garage smelled of oil and gasoline, and drafts sneaking through the cracks drove cold along his legs.
He’d even managed to doze off for a couple of hours, but of course it was useless. His back just ached worse.

The garage was dusty, packed to the rafters with junk; only Zhenya knew where anything was. Tools for days—enough to open a shop.

Over the pit stood Vadim’s old Mazda—his older brother’s. A rustbucket with a lively engine. Still, the Japanese girl was fussy as hell. Like clockwork every six months the cooling system would crap out: the radiator would burst, a hose would split, the expansion tank would crack, or the antifreeze would just… disappear.

Last time they’d met, Vadim had said:
“Zhen'ka, bro, do it like it’s yours.”

The blond clenched his teeth, sweating over the open hood, failing to break loose the seized bolts.
“Like it’s mine”—I’d torch the damn thing, Zhenya decided. He thought about his brother. Vadim might be an idiot, but he’d managed to get married. Two girls growing up—loud like a car without a muffler. And right on schedule, a couple times a month, Vadim called not just to say hi but to bum money. Zhenya always said he didn’t give a shit about anyone, but sometimes it got to him. Not envy… more like a longing for a normal life. Though who the fuck knows what "normal life" even looks like.

He shook his head and came back to the present: here and now—garage, metal, and not a spare pair of hands. His T-shirt stuck to his shoulder blades, his neck throbbed, and his wrists were scraped raw and bleeding. The bolts still wouldn’t budge. Zhenya went to the bench, dug through the junk, and pulled out a WD-40. He stared at the wrench set, though the right size was already in his hand. On the couch, his phone buzzed a few times.

The blond set the tool down, peeled off the dirty gloves, and headed for the corner where a seen-better-days couch held a neatly folded change of clean clothes. Under them—two phones. The new iPhone was the one vibrating.

Zhenya opened the messenger app and flicked through the notifications. It was Vadim again—with his usual:
“How’s it going over there?”
A minute later—another:
“How much longer?”

Zhenya glanced at the car and let out a heavy breath. He hadn’t even really started.

Lower down—a message from Liza:
“You coming tonight?”

The blond stared at the screen. It hit clean: he had nothing to give her—no sex, no pills, not himself.

He’d been fucking with this shitty Mazda for three hours—no strength left at all. He wanted to die, not fuck. Even on good days things with Liza didn’t always go smoothly, and right now the thought alone made him sick. What sex? He needed sleep.

He tapped the mute, tossed the phone back onto the couch.

Then he rummaged through the box of aerosols again and went for the impact wrench.
By the workbench, next to an empty coffee can, lay a TT[9]—no holster, no safety. Just in case. Its smooth black silhouette looked violently out of place against the heap of filthy tools.

People only needed Zhenya while he was fixing, hauling, handing things over. What was inside him—no one gave a fuck.

To the blond, people were always loud, inconvenient, demanding. Cars weren’t.
They kept quiet when he cursed. Hit back when he screwed up. Ran fine when he did it right.
Simple math. Direct feedback. No double-cross.

Maybe he didn’t know what it meant to love—but if he felt anything, it was for this metal. Cars were the only thing that truly made sense.

And Zhenya lived the way he lived. Because death was an easy out he had no right to take.

Chapter Text

The sky was choked with heavy, dark clouds—rain on the way.

All morning Zhenya had been pissed, hungry, wired on energy drinks—and getting nothing done. Two days without proper sleep. The rare car still hadn’t surfaced, the buyer was waiting, and he’d already schlepped out to the Moscow region for nothing—the deal fizzled, they tried to palm off a piece of junk on him.

He was posted by the entrance of a café near the Oriental Faculty[1] at SPbU on Vasilievsky Island[2]. Pure student vibe: pies, buns, coffee—but wrapped in zoomer aesthetics and criminally overpriced.

The damp bench creaked under him. Kirill was late.

Zhenya stood and lit up. The smoke wouldn’t hit—his mouth was dry, nausea creeping in. He wanted food, a shower, and twelve hours of sleep. Everything was fucking bullshit. And sure enough—the final chord of this lovely day was already tuning up. A minute later Kirill rolled around the corner: massive puffer, backpack, shiny sneakers, and in his hand—yet another vape pen, reeking of fake-grape chemicals.

“Zheka! Bro!” Kirill came up and slapped his shoulder. “How’re you? I hung with your boys till three last night, almost slept through two classes today.”

What fucking boys? He means those pushers?

Zhenya blew smoke into his face, making him cough. He was in no mood, because Kirill had, by the looks of it, fucked up.

“What about the car?” Zhenya asked, quiet but firm.

Kirill scratched the back of his head.
“Man, so… here’s the thing. My dad says his buddy’s been wanting, like, a Supra forever. I didn’t argue—you get it. You know… family.”

Beat.

“Zheka, bro, you understand, yeah?”

Zhenya didn’t answer. He was looking past him.

Past Kirill, past the whole situation.

He was already in negotiations. Already hauling a hefty deposit. Already hunting winter tires—the buyer wanted to drive it right away.

The car was rare; you could count viable options in the whole country on one hand. Kirill had the right spec; all that was left was to tweak the paint and interior a bit.

And now—down the drain. Because of this dumbass who promised the moon and bailed.

“Family,” my ass.

Kirill kept mumbling, offering beer, trying to smile. Zhenya nodded on autopilot, not hearing a word.

His hand found a beat-up Android in his pocket—the second phone, the work one.

He dug up the contact of that trust-fund brat from Liza’s crowd. Fingers raced over the keypad:

“Coming for the car today. No haggling. Cash. Send the address.”

Done.

He’d be overpaying by half a mil. The car wasn’t perfect, the mileage was through the roof—he’d deal with the odometer later[3].

But it was a white Toyota Supra[4]. For fuck’s sake.

“Zheka, don’t blow a gasket. I’m buying you a drink for real. Come on, let’s at least grab a coffee now?”

Zhenya’s gaze drifted—and snagged on a silhouette at the café counter. The swarm of thoughts cut off, replaced by a frozen frame.

The stranger had a clean, elegant profile, thick dark hair, plush lips. Dressed simply: a thin hooded jacket, backpack, gray jeans. Asian—but not Chinese, not Kazakh; something else entirely. Too… beautiful. Like a rare car spec—one you glimpse once a decade.

Was he seriously staring at a guy?

Zhenya shook his head, like trying to snap his brain back into place.

Okay, so maybe he appreciates beauty. You see something like that—it clicks. A striking type. He’d only seen similar twice in his life—and remembered both.

But this kid had thrown him off his axis. And the blond hated when all his focus tunneled into a single point and his head stalled like someone smacked him from behind.

He should swing by Liza’s and unwind. Fuck her. Get it out of his system. Just shove it in—no feelings, no thoughts. Remind himself who the hell he is.

“If your cock even decides to stand, buddy,” his inner voice sneered.

Zhenya squinted at the long fingers wrapped around the cardboard cup at the counter.

What the fuck is going on in my head?

He forced his eyes back to Kirill.

“You’re clinically fucking dumb,” he said, stubbing the cigarette out on the bin. “Get lost.”

“Zheka, hey, come on—”

Zhenya shoulder-checked him on purpose, turned, and walked away.

All the way down the street, one thought kept thudding in his skull: by tonight, the white Toyota Supra would be his.

The deal was done. After a little haggling, the kid caved.

Now she stood in front of Zhenya: white, automatic, left-hand drive — a goddamn unicorn.

Three hundred fifty thousand on the odometer. Maybe rolled back, maybe not — he didn’t much care. She was a ’90s girl; back then they built real cars, not those tall closets on stilts with a mile of ground clearance and zero personality. Fucking crossovers.

He’d strip her cabin later, back at the garage: pull the seats, steam the funk out, bleach the sins out with chemicals.

Right now, just looking at her had his blood up — that cold, scalpel-clean beauty he’d only recently gotten hooked on.

Zhenya made a slow circle, fingertips skating the arc of the fender like a hand on a waist. She was all woman: low-slung, lines flowing, a pretty, kicked-up wide ass.

He crushed his cigarette, cracked the door, and slid in — for the first time.

A fine tremor went through him. Anticipation.

He folded himself in, right leg first — immediately clipped his shoulder, then ducked lower so he wouldn’t scrape his forehead on the roof.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he muttered, reclining the seat.

It arched and slid on its rails, inviting him deeper. His left knee kissed the dash; he shifted, set the wheel just so.

Even then, sunk into the driver’s seat, he knew this wouldn’t be some quick one-night stand. He’d have to take this hottie out, at least a couple of times.

The blond rolled the key between his fingers, tossed his jacket onto the passenger seat, and turned her on.

She woke with a shiver — the Supra’s low growl crawled under his ribs and stayed there, purring like a throat under his palm.

He was blasting phonk to the max—bass making the windows buzz—on the way to the bar. At every light Zhenya damn near blacked out: eyelids glued, muscles singing with fatigue, skull thudding with a flat ache. He had the wheel in a death grip—the only thing keeping him from face-planting into a stupor.

Drizzle stitched the windshield; headlight trails smeared into greasy streaks. The car felt alien—too quick, too sharp, too strong. It pissed him off, and somehow that mean edge still felt good.

Half-dead from no sleep, but you and the car lock into one piece. The music punches your temples—and for a minute you remember you’re alive.

No useless bullshit. Just speed. Just you and the metal.

Zhenya curled his lip and buried his foot in the pedal. There it was—the only thing that could beat on his cold heart hard enough to wake it: adrenaline.

He was just glad he hadn’t wrapped it round a pole yet. That no cop had ripped his license. That he even had wheels. One steady lever of control when everything else had gone straight to shit.

No real job, no sleep, no relationship. Just the road. Just drive. That’s it.

He flicked a glance in the rearview, yanking himself back into his filthy reality.

In the trunk of the “white bitch”[5], under the false floor, sat a black trash bag. Inside—control arms, sway-bar links, a couple of ball joints and a tie-rod end—for a Mark II[6]. Donor kit from Pasha. The idiot had said:

“Take it, I don’t need this shit anymore. Just sell it quick, I need cash.”

Classic. Especially from a wannabe drifter who kissed a pole two weeks ago.

The parts were clean—no sketchy stuff. So legal it felt boring. Zhenya meant to flip them with a markup, but he didn’t have time to babysit listings. He’d been hauling that bag from car to car. In the end he figured he’d just hand Pasha the money and say it was gone.

He was heading home anyway—to crash for a couple of hours. Two days without sleep and his brain was porridge. The bar was on the way. Pasha had texted that he’d be there.

The blond nosed the car in near some high-rise. The place was called either “Workroom” or “Boiler Room”—who the hell knew. Another shady basement shot bar. Outside was knife-cold; stepping out of the warm cabin felt like punishment.

Zhenya walked in with half a cigarette clenched between his teeth; it had started to spit rain and he didn’t want to lose the heat. Inside—stale smoke and ethanol, St. Petersburg at its finest. Music rasped out of tired speakers, like someone was slurring mush-mouthed Russian rap straight into the ceiling. Behind the bar—a skinny girl with neon hair and dead eyes, perfect for the decor.

He dropped his hood and swept the room. Pasha sprawled at a back table like a baron. Next to him—Alyona in fake white fur, tipsy and smiling.

Zhenya headed over, fingers finding the cash in his inner pocket. The butt died; he flicked it into the nearest ashtray.

Pasha popped up grinning, a row of little ferret teeth on display. Zhenya would be skimming more off those parts than this wad held, but Pasha didn’t need the math.

The blond passed the cash. Count, grunt, slap on the shoulder.

“Knew you wouldn’t flake, bro. Sit, have a drink.”

He nodded—why not—and drifted closer. A weak thought kicked in: he hadn’t planned on drinking. Booze was the last thing he needed. His head was already fog.

He scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, stepped off to the side, scanned the table. Three more girls parked by Alyona, loud and giggly.

And at the end of the couch—someone not quite familiar.

The second the guy turned his head, Zhenya’s heart hopped like the last few days’ stimulants weren’t cutting it. The same Asian from the café. Still exotically-beautiful.

Zhenya actually exhaled a shade louder—caught off guard by the jolt. Fuck, like somebody upstairs tossed him a candy—bright, shiny, a wrapper even grown-ups fall for.

And you stand there thinking, is the filling really that good?

Life almost never offered him candies like this. And when it did, he knew the game. Nothing’s free. There’s the price—and there’s the bill.

And he still wanted a bite. Wanted to know what it tasted like inside.

He kept staring while the guy edged over to make room. Zhenya’s body jumped ahead of his brain: heat up the face, palms damp, tongue glued to the palate.

The blond dropped down beside him, barely thinking.

The guy met his look—straight, calm, contained. Everything in Zhenya cinched into a tight knot; his heart rattled, skipping beats.

He stuck out a damp palm.
“Evgeny,” he said, leaning in through the smoke and noise.

Cooler fingers touched his, an unsure squeeze.
“Taekjoo. I’m… an exchange student from Korea.” A small smile, still a little lost.

Against that half-drunky lips-filler shit show, he looked unreal. Like an engraving in a physics studybook—too clean for a spit-stained bar.

Up close the details hit: a mole at the cheekbone, the stubborn kink of his brows, a sharp chin, smooth honey skin. Not cutesy, not some glossy K-pop boy—his own dangerous, subtle kind of beauty. Eyes—dark, a little slanted, almost black—caught the dim light and held it. Zhenya’s gaze crawled over him like hands.

“Well, welcome to Russia, bro. You speak really pretty. Cool accent.”

“Thank you. My grandmother knew Russian.” The kid was clearly uneasy with how close Zhenya had sat. But the blond leaned in anyway, his pepper-metal cologne and menthol smoke shouldering into Taekjoo’s nose.

Zhenya snagged a shot off the table, pointed it at him, then bent to his ear to knife through the music.
“You guys drink in Korea?”

Taekjoo gave a small smile, shrugged.
“Yes. We drink. A… lot.”

Zhenya laughed, seeing his mouth twitch into a shy, uncertain smile. The guy didn’t fit tonight at all, and his hair smelled clean—like shampoo. Christ, he was so stupidly good-looking it made you want to stare, to catalog every detail like a collector with a rare piece—if only because, at the bare minimum, it was pleasant.

“Well then—down the hatch.” He nudged the shot closer, but before the kid took it, he dipped a little bow.

“What, you kidding me?” Zhenya arched a brow. “Already changed your mind?”

“It’s a little impolite…” Taekjoo dropped his eyes, weighing words. “The older one drinks first.”

The blond’s mouth ticked.
“So you think I’m older?”

“Am I wrong?” A thin smile in his voice—respect salted with something personal.

A quiet satisfaction slid through Zhenya—rank acknowledged, weirdly nice. He took a pull, set the glass back slow, and nodded at the kid’s shot.
“Your turn.”

The Korean lifted the shot with both hands, turned a touch away, and drank. Trashy bar-blend booze slid down, warming him from the inside.

“Burns?”

“Mm… a little.”

“You’ll be fine. Third one goes down like water.”

The blond narrowed his eyes, watching Taekjoo swallow, the throat working. His own face didn’t give a thing away.

They drank almost in silence. Girls’ laughter rang. Vape clouds rolled over the table like sweet chemical cotton. Empty glasses multiplied.

Pasha wandered off. Alyona and her gaggle disappeared to the bathroom. The guys were left alone. Zhenya slouched back, loosened up, and stared at him openly, unable to yank his greedy eyes away.

“Bored here?”

“A little. I… am not used to this. A classmate invited me, and I came with her.”

Zhenya suddenly leaned in closer, mouth near his ear.
“Wanna ghost out Russian-style?” There was a bell-tone of mischief in his voice.

Taekjoo’s straight dark brows went up.
“What style?”

“Step outside and don’t come back,” the blond said, easy grin flashing.

The Korean stared, not sure if it was a joke. Rude, right. But Zhenya was already up.

“We’ll say we went for a smoke. Then we take a ride.”

Taekjoo glanced around—the girls were gone, Pasha was jawing with someone at the bar. He stood too, tugged by a strange thread of anticipation.

They moved for the exit together. Zhenya laid a weightless hand between his shoulder blades—nudging him along to get the hell out faster. From the side he stole another look at that profile—cut cheekbones, plush lips a little wet with booze. He smelled… clean. It made you want to press your nose into his neck and breathe deep. Back in the bar, that scent drowned under spirits and cheap smoke.

Right by the door someone called the Korean by name. He started to turn, but Zhenya squeezed the hoodie and bent to his ear.

“Later,” he said—and all but shoved him into the night.

Inside the blond something feral bucked—the stubborn greed of a guy who loves beautiful machines and not only them. A thought splintered under the skin and itched: If I don’t grab him now, I’ll never scrub that fucking face outta my skull, and it’ll eat me alive.

He wanted to yank this pretty boy out, sit him in the passenger seat, kill the music in the cabin—and really look at him in the right light with no extras. Figure out why the hell it hooked so hard.

Yeah, and you think he’ll just go along? Maybe the student really does just want a spin. Or maybe it’s that polite Asian thing?

“Fuck that,” Zhenya muttered, decision already made.

If you want it—you take it.

The street hit them with cold rain and wet asphalt. They stopped under the bar’s awning. Zhenya fished out a cigarette, thumbed the lighter, drew deep—then, without taking it from his mouth, held the half-empty pack out to Taekjoo.

He hesitated for a split second, then leaned in, flicking a glance up from under his lashes—and plucked a cigarette from the pack with his lips. His face was dangerously close; his breath brushed the blond’s knuckles.

He straightened and lit his off the cherry of Zhenya’s Marlboro. Cheeks hollowed, smoke slid out through his nose. It was pretty. Almost indecent.

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to get into cars with strangers?” Zhenya asked, flicked ash at his boots without looking.

“You’re not exactly a stranger,” he said quietly, mouth set in a stubborn line. He drew deep, blew the smoke aside, then added—almost ceremonially, “If it isn’t too bold… I don’t mind if you steal me.”

A polite voice, a calm delivery—but something in the tone sharpened Zhenya’s interest. Taekjoo lowered the cigarette and the tip of his tongue skimmed his lower lip—light and provocative, like tasting the bitterness of nicotine.

Zhenya snorted, a crooked grin, eyes narrowing.
“Risky stance.”

“You don’t look like someone who asks permission,” Taekjoo shot back, still not meeting his eyes directly, but with the subtext loud and clear. It felt like he was probing the fence—to see how far Zhenya would push.

The blond tipped his head, studying him. Behind that calm face was an edge—a habit of taking a hit, or a readiness to jab back. That little charge of unpredictability he could feel in his gut. And, hell, that made him stupidly curious.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s test your theory.”

Chapter Text

Zhenya led Taekjoo through an archway, past trash bins and wet steps, where she waited—a white Toyota Supra JZA80[1]. The car looked like it had rolled straight off a movie screen: body kit[2], an aggressive hood, round headlights, and a brazen spoiler that demanded attention. The clearcoat gleamed, beaded with tiny raindrops like diamonds.

“She’s a stunner. Yours?” A brief spark of interest flickered in Taekjoo’s eyes.

“What do you need to know that for?” Zhenya smirked, answering a question with a question. He wasn’t really looking at the car anyway, but at the wet tracks of rain sliding down the Korean’s neck under his hoodie.

“Just curious.” He sounded sincere.

The blond twitched the corner of his mouth as if gearing up for a snarky line, then only thumbed the fob — the lights blinked amber in greeting.

“Hop in,” he said, bracing a palm on the roof.

Zhenya watched him climb in—two scarce creatures in the wild—the white coupe and this pretty boy.

Come on, Evgeny, take it before somebody else does.

Taekjoo cracked the door and slipped inside. The half-light cut off the street noise in an instant. The city became nothing but a backdrop beyond the windshield. He sat down, palms on his knees, back straight.

The Supra’s cabin was low and tight, stretched forward so it felt like sitting in a capsule. Inside it had the same aerodynamics as the exterior—a wealth of smooth lines made to slice the air.

The chassis dipped as Zhenya dropped into the driver’s seat. As he slid in, their shoulders brushed; Taekjoo held his breath for a second

The key clicked in the ignition; the engine answered with a low, predatory growl. Soft blue light spread from the dash, washing over the gear lever, the leather Toyota wheel, and the media console. The fan kicked on, filling the air with a mix of tobacco, a Bubble Gum air freshener, and a cool aquatic cologne — a cocktail soaked into the blond’s skin.

Zhenya watched Taekjoo’s gaze trace the dash — a black lacquered strip curving like a hip line. The automatic selector was long and chromed, provocatively lit by the blue half-light. Zhenya’s fingers wrapped it with practiced confidence.

“Time for a party trick,” he said with a sly smile, slipping the lever into neutral. He waited a beat — then hit the gas.

The Supra roared, low and throaty. The engine’s tremor came up through the floor, and the harder he leaned on the throttle, the stronger it got. Taekjoo watched the tach needle jump into the red. Zhenya snapped off the pedal — a loud bang popped from the exhaust, like a gunshot. A parked car nearby screamed its alarm. The blond looked pleased with himself, like a kid on New Year’s morning.

“Hear that? Treat her gently and she purrs—push her and she bares her claws.” He teased the throttle until the cabin picked up a fine, buzzy shiver.

“Looks like you’re petting her exactly the way she likes. Mm. Do that again.”

Taekjoo’s eyes lit up; the look on his face was too charming to refuse.

Satisfied with the effect, Zhenya exhaled through his nose and nodded. Without taking his eyes off the student, he pressed again — the motor bellowed and the cabin shivered, a low resonance running into the doors. It was… filthy-sexy.

“She’s a smokeshow,” he rasped, stroking the wheel — not showing off, just pure delight.

Taekjoo trailed his fingers over the smooth plastic in front of him.
“I think… she likes it when you ride her hard.”

Zhenya narrowed his eyes.
“How do you know?”

“Just a hunch. By analogy.”

“You mean the car?” he asked, brows up.

“The manner,” Taekjoo corrected gently.

“Your analogies are on point,” Zhenya snorted.

“I try to be precise.” He looked aside, as if surprised by his own boldness.

The blond let his gaze slide over the figure beside him, over the sharp knees under the jeans. For a second he pictured them digging into his sides if he sat him facing him and pinned him to the wheel. The image sparked interest in certain places.

He hadn’t had thoughts like that about guys before. Or — not until today, not until this particular guy…
Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe the buzz and the soft blue half-light. The thought wouldn’t let go, and his cock twitched.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, forced his eyes back to the headlight-lit courtyard, trying not to give himself away. But the feeling stuck — like the student had tossed out bait on purpose and Zhenya took it. Surely he wasn’t just imagining it? He tugged at his hoodie’s collar. The air felt thinner.

“Want a ride?” It sounded almost decent. Almost.

A couple seconds of silence. Only their breathing and the engine’s rumble. Taekjoo looked at him and slowly nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

The Supra gave a satisfied growl, as if she knew exactly how this night would end.

They rolled out onto Nevsky Prospekt[3].
The road gleamed like black glass, throwing back the glow of shopfronts, headlights, and signs. House music thumped softly from the speakers. Wipers dragged lazily across the windshield, sweeping away stray drops, while the heater hummed low, lulling with its steady warmth.
Outside, the city drifted past the windshield—half-asleep.

The windows began to fog from the temperature difference, and Taekjoo tugged off his hoodie, leaving in a thin black tee. The cotton clung, picking out the cut of his chest and shoulders.

Zhenya glanced over—and froze, fingers tightening on the wheel. At the next red, he caved first.

“Did you play sports?”
“Yeah—track and field at school.”
“Got it…”

Another red. The car waited, held on a short leash.

“You’ve got… a beautiful body,” Zhenya said evenly, almost detached, like a passing note.

“Thank you,” he nodded, lecture-hall polite. “Likewise—you are most admirably put together, Evgeny.”

Zhenya gave a short laugh and flicked a toggle by the shifter—the dry click cut through the cabin. An unfamiliar icon blinked to life on the dash; Taekjoo didn’t know what Zhenya had switched on, but the engine note changed at once—deeper, meaner, as if the Supra had turned nasty.

“Oh,” the Korean breathed. “Now that’s more like her.”

“Hold tight, student,” the blond said, taking the wheel in both hands.

There wasn’t even time to ask—Zhenya buried the throttle. They got pinned to the seats; the car lunged, tires screaming on the wet pavement. Zero to a hundred in a clean five flat. He knew every speed trap and every camera eye. He’d been running this line for years.

His ears popped. Zhenya was grinning like a maniac, the line between adrenaline and want blurring. Taekjoo saw it—and met it with a smile that said he felt it, too.

“In Korea, people don’t drive like this,” he said, leaning forward a touch, fingers hooked in the safety belt.

“With me, in Petersburg, they do.” A quick flick; on the rain-washed asphalt the rear swung wide, and he caught the slide. “And like this…” He buried gas pedal, the needle creeping toward one-forty.

Taekjoo never took his eyes off the road. His grip on the belt tightened; the corners of his mouth climbed—wild, like the driver’s.
“You do know how to surprise a man,” he said, almost as a statement. Then, meeting his eyes, added,
“But that’s only for now.”

Zhenya huffed, knuckles whitening on the wheel. That prickle in his gut again—something about to happen. And he was right.

A beautiful hand with long fingers settled on the inside of his thigh. The gesture felt familiar—his system kicked hard, all at once. Over the engine’s roar and the blood in his ears, Zhenya heard:
“Please—don’t rush.”

The “inspection” was going off-script. He’d only meant to get a good look at him—in the right light. So—floor it, or listen to him? Christ.

The car sat buried in the lot’s shadow, wrapped in night. Not a soul around. Outside, the rain came down hard—fat drops drumming a steady beat on the Supra’s roof. Far off, a flash of lightning lit the empty lot for a heartbeat, catching a lone coupe whose windows were fogging from the inside.

If some stubborn passerby braved the weather and stared a little too long at that white sports car, they might’ve noticed the chassis rock faintly—as if something was happening inside. Maybe even guessed what. But the tint gave them nothing. Their secret stayed sealed.

Taekjoo unclipped his seat belt first. He moved closer and found Zhenya’s mouth. The kiss deepened fast—hot and intent, like he’d been holding himself back the whole drive. Wet mouths, shared air, a quick, clever tongue pushing past Zhenya’s lips. The blond groaned, heat knotting low, his fly suddenly too tight.

“Fuck…” he breathed, letting his head fall back against the headrest.

Taekjoo’s hand slid to his thigh, then higher, cupping the thick outline under denim. Long fingers popped the button, dragged the zipper down—a second later he had Zhenya’s hot cock in his grip, through thin cotton. His boxers were already damp; Taekjoo found the slick patch and looked up.

“Been a while?”

Zhenya nodded. No way he could’ve answered clearly even if he tried.

Taekjoo slipped his hand under the waistband. His palm slid hot and soft over his skin. He found the head—wet, slippery with pre-cum—thumbed over it, smearing the slick, then twisted his wrist and started working him. Up and down—a little rough but precise, like he knew exactly where to stroke and where to squeeze.

He shifted back just enough to watch Zhenya’s face while his hand kept moving. A harder press at the base, a firm pull all the way up, another turn of the wrist, a slow drag down.

Zhenya jolted.

Holy shit. He jerks me off the way I do—only better.

Another tight stroke blurred his vision for a beat.

He never clocked the moment he lost control. It all melted into a single note of ecstasy: the rain pounding the roof, hot breath at his neck, the engine’s thrum, his heart trying to break out of his ribs. Reality tilted; it felt like someone else had taken the wheel and he’d been shoved into the passenger seat of his own body.

He hadn’t planned to come like that—shamefully fast. Not now. Not like this. But then Taekjoo breathed warm against his skin, lips parted at his throat, teeth pressed lightly to his Adam’s apple—and the safety line snapped.

Zhenya went over the edge, spine bowing, head tipped back, lips parted—he came hard. Quick, messy, with a raw, guttural sound. Heat ripped up from his gut and drowned him—pleasure first, then the sting of shame at how quickly he went off.

So yeah: Evgeny Bogdanov just blew his load in the driver’s seat of a car he’s supposed to hand off—because some obscenely pretty fucker he’s known for two hours had him by the cock.
Jesus fuck.

A practical little thought about napkins in the glovebox bobbed up—and sank under the weight of pure mortification.

He blinked back to himself, pulse hammering in his temples. Taekjoo studied his palm, messy with cum. Holding Zhenya’s gaze, he cleaned his fingers with his tongue and let a slow, wicked smile tug at his mouth.

A clap of thunder rolled in the distance.

“Slide your seat back,” he said—as if he’d been driving this the whole time. Not the car—the moment. One dark, sharp look, and control shifted into his hands.

Zhenya’s fingers found the seat adjuster. The rails clicked. Only then did it hit him—fuck, I just did it. Didn’t even ask why. He wasn’t the type to take orders. But with this guy… everything he said sounded right. Scary as hell. Hot as hell.

Bracing a palm against the seatback, Taekjoo climbed onto his lap. Space was a fight: the headliner pressed down, making him fold in half; his knees kept slipping off the edge of the seat, catching on the door seam, the armrest, anything. Still, he moved carefully, controlled—every motion thought through.

It was the two of them versus the Supra’s geometry—and the car wasn’t about to lose.

The blond lifted to help, not quite believing he was doing this. His hands settled on solid thighs. Taekjoo straddled him, fingers hooked over the seatback and Zhenya’s shoulders. Even with Zhenya’s legs spread wide, a knee slid against his groin. The roof forced them so close their foreheads almost bumped.

Taekjoo’s jeans rode low at an awkward angle, baring the sharp lines of his hips and the flat plane of his stomach; the stretched fabric creaked like it might give way.

He worked the button on his jeans, awkward and doubled over. His knees scraped on the leather seat; the denim snagged and refused to budge—then he finally shoved them down with his briefs, baring his cock—dark and hard, the head glossy. His skin was a warm bronze.

He leaned in, half-folded, the ends of his hair ghosting Zhenya’s neck. A low, rough breath tore out of the blond’s chest.

“You’re… beautiful,” he murmured into Taekjoo’s ear.

No answer—just an arm around his neck, a kiss to his temple. The other hand slid lower, found him; to Zhenya’s horror he was getting hard. Again.

He couldn’t make sense of it. He’d just come a few minutes ago, and now his cock was coming back up. That shouldn’t be possible. Chalk it up to exhaustion. The booze. Or maybe it was the little devil in his lap—wet with want, hot to the touch, smug as sin…

Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary…

He swore and dropped back harder. Taekjoo rolled his hips—and their cocks brushed: stiff, flushed, indecent.

Zhenya flinched.
“I’m gonna fucking spin out,” he whispered, fingers biting into Taekjoo’s shoulders. “Sorry… I don’t know what’s—”

“It’s fine,” Taekjoo murmured, mouth finding his neck again. His lips were soft; his kisses, wet and warm.

He started to roll his hips, grinding down on Zhenya, stroking them both. Their cocks slid against each other—hot, indecent—trapped in one hand. The sweet jolt of it nearly knocked the breath out of the blond.

Well, that’s a fucking first—

His hips bucked, instinctive, like his body had stolen the keys. A rough sound tore out of him; gooseflesh broke over his skin.

Fuck…

Taekjoo worked faster, breath going loud. His grip tightened, strokes quickened. He jerked once—his head thumped the headliner, his back clipped the wheel.

The car answered with a startled chirp from the horn. Taekjoo’s thighs shivered. He sucked in a breath and went rigid—then he broke, coming hard, bright and sudden. Heat slicked his hand; streaks slid over his stomach. He shook all over, damp hair pasted to his forehead. A sound tore out of him and he slumped, panting. His hand went still—pure torture for Zhenya.

“Don’t stop,” the blond rasped, grabbing his own cock. He jerked himself hard, almost desperate. Suddenly sticky fingers closed over his and took over—together now, faster, rougher, more precise.

White sparks flared behind his eyes—he came with a hoarse snarl, the world dimming at the edges.

The smell of cum braided into the warm, wet scent of the cabin. Taekjoo pressed his mouth to Zhenya’s neck while he lay there, breathing hard, eyelids heavy, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. New. All of this was violently, addictively new.

Could sex be like this every time?

His hands shook. He tasted metal—must’ve bitten his lip when he’d been working himself raw. Staring up at the ceiling, Zhenya tried to understand what the hell had just happened.
This was… better than any sex he’d ever had. Not even “proper” sex—just a handjob. And still he didn’t have a word for what it did to him. Total mindfuck.

His head cleared by inches. Breathing evened out; thoughts were still a mess. The heat of the body on top of him didn’t help, and still he managed:
“Should I… take you back to the dorm?” His voice cracked, and part of him savored the hot weight pinning him to the seat.

“Or could we… stay a little longer?” Taekjoo whispered, the softness of his accent brushing Zhenya’s skin.

Outside, the storm ran out of anger—like the sky itself needed a minute to breathe.

Zhenya watched, a little dazed, as Taekjoo’s silhouette blurred into the fine rain. He cracked the window, let the autumn chill into the cabin, and bled a ribbon of smoke into the night.

There was a new name in his contacts. His head felt oddly blank—no thoughts, no regrets. Just a prickle under the skin: the kid had gotten to him.

He’d only meant to take him for a spin. Show the city. Flex the new ride. And, if he was honest, get a closer look—too pretty not to. That was supposed to be it: a goodbye and done. He didn’t get attached. Ever. But his fingers were already aching to drag him back into the car.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket, breaking the quiet.
“Till next time,” it said—with a dumb smirking cat emoji. The blond snorted, pleased despite himself, exhaled through his nose and dipped his head.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, flicking ash onto the wet asphalt. Lately nothing hooked him. And this—yeah.

Sometimes the only way to keep your head is to put your foot down and not think about what comes after.

Chapter Text

Zhenya had stopped counting how many times they’d done it. Keeping score didn’t even make sense anymore—it wasn’t “times,” it was rounds.

Every Friday he picked up Taekjoo in the evening—a starter pistol for their own sex marathon. Kisses that turned into handjobs. Handjobs that blurred into blowjobs. Then back to kissing, touching, grinding, again and again. On a loop. Zhenya hadn’t felt this kind of relentless pull since he was a teenager—he’d come once, and half an hour later he’d be hard again. He wasn’t fourteen, for fuck’s sake.

No, he didn’t come just because Taekjoo took his hand—he wasn’t that fucked in the head. But this? This had never happened to the blond before.

Usually it kicked off at a feral clip, then eased off after the first orgasm. They’d come down, steady their breathing, touch each other, make out for ages. And if one of them got hard again, they’d start over—like wild animals. Their bodies demanded it and refused the idea of stopping.

And Taekjoo… turned out to be fucking unreal. Not just good—scary good. Experienced, greedy in all the best ways, and somehow still gentle. Strong hands, lips that knew exactly what to do, that hot, wet mouth—God. The way he climbed on top, straddling him, lightly holding the blond by the wrists… He never asked what Zhenya liked—he just did everything right by default. Licked, lapped, squeezed. Zhenya would come fast—too fast—fireworks bursting behind his eyes, and then immediately crave another go. And another.

By week’s end they could barely look at each other calmly. The need to be close again ate them alive.

He’d pick Taekjoo up and they’d nearly fuck in the front seat—right there, under the dorm’s security cameras—like horny high schoolers in Mom and Dad’s borrowed car. Zhenya would drive out of the city—garage, outskirts, some forgotten dirt road by the river—and the Korean would suck him off till Zhenya was cussing through his teeth.

Taekjoo deepthroated him—right to the root, cheeks hollowing hard—always sucking like it was do-or-die. Zhenya kept promising he’d hold out a little longer; every time he’d snap, fist knotted in Taekjoo’s hair at the nape, whimpering, moaning like a fucking idiot, and unloading down the man’s throat without any warning. Just heat, instinct and a kind of raw surrender.

The Bimmer’s seats—his finicky little princess—had never seen that much sweat and cum. Most nights they ended up in the back, both slick and boneless like after a run—and still reaching for each other.

But that was it. For all the chaos, their “date nights” hadn’t crossed the final line. No full-on fucking. No real penetration. Just mauling kisses, jerking each other off, and mind-blowing blow jobs that short-circuited the blond's brain.

And still, he waited. Waited for… what? Permission? A sign from above? Some voice that said, “Okay, now it’s time”? Whatever he thought he was preserving, he couldn’t name it. His virginity? Please.

All it took was the memory of last time: the Korean kneeling, eyes up, Zhenya’s flushed cock in his mouth. The blond bit his lip; heat bloomed low in his groin.

He had to make a decision. It wasn’t exactly dignified—hell, not even manly—to feel like some teen making out in his parents’ car, ducking behind the seats and praying no one caught them. But that’s how it was. That kind of electric desperation. That kind of pull.

He didn’t like letting people into his apartment. That was his place. His safe zone. He didn’t let anyone in easily. Not even friends. That was his last wall.

But maybe tonight…

Tonight he wanted it to be different.

Taekjoo stepped out of the dorm a little too fast—nervous, trying not to show it. Same simple look as always: short jacket, scarf, black jeans. He moved quickly, back straight, brow slightly furrowed. Zhenya smirked to himself. Like he was walking into an interrogation—that same tightness in his face. Or maybe he was just barely holding himself back, too.

At the bottom of the steps, the Korean paused, adjusting the strap on his backpack and scanning for the BMW. Instead, the headlights of a sleek, unfamiliar black car blinked once. Taekjoo raised his brows, nodded, and headed toward it with a sudden lightness in his steps that hadn’t been there a second ago.

The blond watched him approach—and yeah, that was it.
Fuck.
Like he’d been waiting for this all goddamn week. Like the whole day had been some uphill crawl just to get to this moment. And that wasn’t even a figure of speech—his dick was already half-hard just from catching sight of this guy.

The nervous tapping of his left foot finally stopped. The weight in his shoulders dropped.

The door clicked shut. Taekjoo slid into the passenger seat with a familiar, practiced ease, shrugging off his jacket and tossing the backpack into the back. The scent hit the blond right away: shampoo, citrus, and cold street air.
Zhenya leaned in without thinking, breathing him in. Fucking delicious—made him want to bury his nose in the kid’s neck and not come up for air.

“New car?” Taekjoo asked, his voice calm as ever, but with a noticeable husk to it. “Looks pretty modern.”

“Yeah. She’s cute. But I’m flipping her. Took her… out of curiosity,” Zhenya replied, glancing at him sideways as he started the engine and pulled onto the road.

“What kind of curiosity?” the Taekjoo asked, tilting his head as he studied the dashboard.

Zhenya gave a crooked grin.
“You’re from Korea. She’s from Korea. Wanted to see if you two had anything in common. I liked her predatory look and the elegant lines of her body.”

His knuckles glided along the smooth dash like he was stroking skin. Taekjoo gave a soft chuckle and looked away. The want between them hung in the air, almost touchable.

“Feel like cruising the city tonight?” Zhenya asked, guiding them through a web of side streets and out onto the wider roads.

The Korean shook his head. And then, offhand, eyes on the window, not loud, but perfectly clear:
“I haven’t touched myself all week.”

Zhenya’s Adam’s apple jumped.
He exhaled through gritted teeth. Reflexively, his body leaned toward the passenger seat—then snapped back, brain slamming into gear. Fuck, he was driving. Fast. The seatbelt pulled tight against his chest as he jerked upright again. He clamped the wheel hard enough to blanch his knuckles.

“Taek, don’t—” he muttered, already burying the throttle, “—don’t say shit like that while I’m driving. We’re gonna fucking crash.”

The road vibrated under them—concrete seams humming under the tires—and the Kia K5[1] surged cleanly. The car did exactly what he asked—eager, obedient. Unlike his dick, which was one wrong word away from exploding. That thing had no traction control.

Zhenya veered off the usual route, took a sharp right toward the WHSD[2]. Toll road, sure, but worth it. Different limits out here, and the lanes were empty. He checked the speedo. One-fifteen. Good enough.

The mirror held a dark sheet of the bay and smears of light. To the right—Taekjoo’s profile: calm, composed, like always.

“You good?” the blond asked, his voice low, hoarse. “You got real quiet.”

The Korean turned his face toward him, as if he’d just now remembered the person next to him wasn’t just a driver. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“What about you?” He knew answering a question with a question was rude, but he did it anyway—because teasing felt too good.

“I’ve got a fucking situation in my pants,” Zhenya muttered, crushing the wheel. “After that…”

Taekjoo nodded slowly, like he understood. Then, soft, almost cheerful:
“Strange. I didn’t think I said anything that special.”

Zhenya flicked a sharp glance at him.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Innocent words, polite tone—and yet the bastard was playing him like a lit match over a gasoline spill. That smirk still lingered in the corner of his mouth. Mischief. On purpose. Little shit knew exactly what he was doing.

The silence stretched again, broken only by the rush of wind and rubber. Zhenya could tell—he wasn’t imagining it—Taekjoo was still smiling, just faintly. Like he was enjoying the slow burn.

“It’s beautiful here,” the Korean said, still watching the road slide past his window. “Especially… that spire.”

“Lakhta Center[3],” Zhenya supplied.

“I like it,” Taekjoo murmured. Still facing away, but voice lower now.

“Wanna see it from up high?”

“Yes.” Taekjoo smiled, his dangerous dark look locking with the blond’s blue eyes. “Show me.”

Zhenya swung the K5 into the parking spot and whipped the wheel hard, tucking the car almost up against the wall. The K5 slid into place like it belonged there—quick, clean, two little moves and it was perfect.

“Damn,” Taekjoo said, impressed. “Nice parking job.”

“Habit,” the blond said, shrugging as he cut the engine. “I always park here. I can eyeball it.”

He said it offhand, but the words hung there: I always park here.
So he’d brought him home? The Korean lifted an eyebrow, said nothing, grabbed his backpack and jacket, wrapped his scarf, and followed.

The high-rise lobby wasn’t flashy, but it was classy. Soft lighting, dark matte tiles, clean air, and the smell of expensive cologne met them at the door.

Zhenya hit the elevator button—doors parted with a soft sigh. Taekjoo stepped in first, the blond after him. The top-floor button glowed yellow under his finger. The cabin hummed and began to rise; his ears popped for a second.

“The air… feels different up here,” the Korean said, staring at the mirrored panel. The reflection showed two men: one with tousled dark hair, the other broad-shouldered in a leather jacket.

Zhenya nodded.
“I like it. And the view in the evening—it’s fire. Especially when the sky’s clear and you can watch the sun go down.”

He was about to add something about the height, the panoramic glass, Lakhta—but he didn’t get the chance. Taekjoo stepped closer, cupped Zhenya’s cheek with a warm hand, and their mouths met.

The kiss wasn’t quick or aggressive—it was greedy, deep, the kind that sent blood rushing from his head straight down. Zhenya answered right away, leaning in, feeling their bodies close in the tight space.

The elevator jerked and stopped. Nobody moved. Zhenya slid his leg between the doors to hold them.

“More,” he breathed, and kissed him again.

Taekjoo pulled back first, eyes bright.

“Listen…” he whispered. “I don’t think I can wait anymore.”

The blond smirked and, without breaking the kiss, stepped backward — hauling them out of the elevator.

Taekjoo’s fingers were already under his hoodie, skating over his abs, while Zhenya wrestled his keys. He found the right one by feel—missed the lock, tried again—click—and missed again. The keyhole refused him, then finally gave way and they stumbled into the entryway.

The apartment met them with dim light and a clean smell. It felt fresh—the windows must be cracked open. A cool draft brushed their ankles.

Zhenya closed the door with his elbow and pressed against Taekjoo’s chest. The kid kicked off his sneakers while Zhenya unwound the scarf, fingers grazing a hot neck. The backpack got tossed somewhere into a corner.

They couldn’t stop kissing—stripping each other blindly, tripping over their own feet.

Between kisses Taekjoo noticed a glowing rectangle in the darkness. An aquarium, it seemed. Golden fish-shadows flickered inside, lit by a soft blue glow. But the blond didn’t let him linger. He guided him deeper—somewhere he didn’t often go himself—toward the bedroom.

The white bedding was cool against their skin. Cotton crackled softly, taking two bodies into its arms. The Korean dropped onto the mattress, breathless; Zhenya’s hands braced on either side of him.

City light bled through the panoramic window—diffuse, unsteady, but enough for Zhenya to take the sight in and feel his breath catch. The pale sheets and bronze skin—it looked too perfect. He stared like it was the crown jewel at the Hermitage[4]. Then Zhenya broke:
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” the blond said aloud.

Taekjoo smirked—and, without looking away, stroked his thigh.

“I give you permission to touch,” he said with a ridiculous look of smug satisfaction on his face.

Zhenya bent down and kissed him again—wet and hot. His hand slid down the smooth skin, testing a reaction. Taekjoo exhaled louder, arching into it, and the blond drifted to his throat, tasting. Short touches along the jaw, then his mouth lingered at the pulse point—counting two quick beats.

The scent of him—sweet-spicy and intoxicating—crashed over Zhenya, pulling every safety off. He kissed the collarbone, lower—the solar plexus—breathing and touching lightly.

His fingers reached the nipples, tentatively—he brushed them with his fingertips, curious. He’d hardly ever touched them before. Now he was hooked, watching the skin grow sensitive, watching them tighten into two hard beads.

“Does that… feel good?” he asked, drawing back for a fraction of a second.

Taekjoo made a soft sound, arching towards his hands.
“What do you think?” came the husky, tempting reply. “If you doubt it — check again.”

Christ, that kind of shit is insanely hot…

The blond wanted more—more reactions, more sound, more of him.

He bent over the chest—ran his tongue down the torso, toward the stomach. Light, almost not touching, listening to the breath above. Taekjoo shivered—long kisses, slow petting, the way Zhenya’s mouth lingered on skin, taking in his smell and the slight saltiness on his tongue.

When he reached the lower belly—the sharp lines of the pelvis—he stopped.

He looked at Taekjoo—breathing hard, burning up—and felt the same fire build inside. He should keep going—and he faltered. Just a heartbeat. A clear thought snapped into place: He’s done this dozens of times for you. With love, with abandon. And you’re pussy-footing? Are you shitting yourself?

Zhenya swallowed. His hand slid under the waistband.

“I don’t promise this’ll be perfect right away. But you asked for it,” he grunted and settled between Taekjoo’s legs.

The Korean laughed softly and his palm settled on the blond’s pale neck. His fingers threaded through the hair, pulling him closer while leaving the choice in Zhenya’s hands.

“Don’t overthink it,” he whispered. “Just… do what feels right.”

Zhenya could never have imagined finding himself like this—between another guy’s warm thighs, heat from his hard cock right there, thinking: how the hell do you even do this properly?

He swallowed, took a deep breath as if preparing to dive. He tugged the underwear down and ran his fingers along the length—slow, careful. Felt the weight gather under his palm, the skin—thin, silky, warm—tremble against his fingertips. The muscles in Taekjoo’s belly and thighs twitched with each stroke.

Zhenya leaned forward and took him in his mouth, bracing himself for something gross. To his surprise, there was none of that. Just warmth, the taste of clean skin, a faint saltiness, and the slick of lube. No disgust. Instead, a strange, almost childish astonishment—huh, it’s actually… fine?

He set his mouth, lips and tongue trying to do it right. His brain kept chirping nonsense: You’re seriously sucking another man’s dick—and enjoying it? Holy shit. Stop whining. Do it well.

He steadied, slid his tongue lower, sealed his lips more tightly. The skin was so damn soft—like silk. He sank further, swallowed more—and misjudged the angle.

The head bumped his palate, then the back of his throat. Zhenya jerked back, coughed, doubled over, cheeks burning.

Taekjoo covered his face with a hand. A strangled sound slipped through his fingers—somewhere between embarrassment and a laugh.

“Don’t rush,” he said, still hiding his face with his hand. “Not deep. Just… like you’re sucking an ice cream. No teeth.”

Zhenya nodded, cheeks still hot, and bent again—this time taking only the head. He started to suck in a rhythm that felt right—gentle, unhurried.

“Tighten your lips,” the Korean instructed.

His fingers clutched the sheet; his hips pushed forward. Zhenya obeyed without question.

He didn’t know how he looked, but he could feel it: the cock sliding deeper, his movements getting stronger, like Taekjoo was fucking his mouth. Maybe he was.

Zhenya ran out of air; the world buzzed, eyes watering. And still… it felt good. Weirdly good, despite the sore jaw and the strangled throat.

The thrusts sharpened. Taekjoo trembled, panting out, fingers clawing at Zhenya’s hair, then tangling on his broad shoulders. He was right on the edge.

“I’m… close,” the Korean rasped, voice cracking.

He tried to pull out, but the blond—without really meaning to—locked his hands on the guy’s hips and wouldn’t let go.

Those wet lips, that flushed, gorgeous face, the blown pupils—and a flash: I want to see him come. I want to see how my lover…

Have you lost your damn mind, Evgeny?

Taekjoo’s orgasm hit hard—his body arched, and he came in the blond’s mouth.

Zhenya flinched—but didn’t pull away.
A beat of shock—then he swallowed. Voluntarily.

Silence hung between them. The blond lay propped on his elbows, breathing hard. Taekjoo had a hand to his forehead, disbelief written all over him. Then he sat up slowly.

“This is…” he rasped. “You…”

Zhenya pushed up, flicked spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

“Lost your vocabulary?” a crooked grin tugged his mouth. “Because this—” he nodded down at his own erection, “—needs dealing with.”

Taekjoo laughed and reached forward, brushing his cheek.

“I have an idea. I just… need something from my backpack.”

Zhenya frowned.
“Like what?”

“Not a grammar notebook, that’s for sure,” Taekjoo said, a sly smile sliding across his lips.

Zhenya walked out of the bedroom, his bare feet padding softly over the cool, smooth floor. He reached the hallway and ran his fingers along the wall until they found the light switch. A dim glow spilled over the room—enough to catch sight of a small black backpack abandoned in the corner, next to a single sneaker kicked off mid-hurry.

He crouched and tugged the zipper open. The contents were unexpected: a travel mug, a thick Russian-Korean dictionary, a notebook filled with neat handwriting, a tube of lube, and a box of condoms.

Zhenya blinked. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, voice low with a mix of awe and embarrassment. For a student on exchange, that was one hell of a survival kit. He raked a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply.

So Taekjoo hadn’t come here on a whim. He’d come prepared. Like an adult. Like someone who knew exactly where the night might lead.

His eyes caught the label on the condom box—XXL. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Well, damn. Nailed the size too, huh?” he whispered to himself. “What’d the little bastard do, eyeball it?”

He snatched the tube and the box and headed back.

Taekjoo was already waiting—half-reclined against the pillows, legs loosely spread, gaze fixed on Zhenya. There was shyness in his expression, yes, but not avoidance. His dark eyes followed the blond’s every move.

“Do you… want to watch?”

Zhenya froze halfway to the bed.
“What do you mean, ‘watch’?”

“How it’s done.” Taekjoo’s tone was almost clinical, though his chest was rising faster. “I already started earlier today, but I need a little more prep. Want to… try it together?”

The blond sat down beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. He handed Taekjoo the items, still processing what he’d just heard. Only now was it really sinking in what was happening. They were actually about to fuck. Two guys…?

His brain lagged. Maybe he was slow because he’d barely breathed while the Korean was coming in his mouth. Maybe it was oxygen deprivation. Was he actually this dumb? A naked guy sitting there, legs open—and he was only just getting it?

A quiet click broke the silence. Zhenya looked up just in time to see Taekjoo squeeze a generous line of gel onto his fingers. No hesitation, no drama—just a deep breath and a slow press inward. His brows knit, but his expression didn’t waver.

The blond froze, not sure where to look. The hand? The—Christ. The hole? He caught himself staring, inner voice hissing: It’s just anatomy, you idiot. A hole is a hole. Focus.

Between spread cheeks everything gleamed, lube slowly dripping onto the sheets.

“Does it hurt?” Zhenya managed to ask, his throat dry.

Taekjoo shook his head slightly. “No. Just… cold.”

He added a second finger, breathing more heavily, hand moving with a rhythm that balanced between discomfort and pleasure.

Only heavy breathing and obscene wet sounds broke the darkness. The Korean’s hand kept speeding up; Zhenya just stared, heat from the porn scene in front of him cooking his brain while his balls ached, tight and heavy.

Then Taekjoo stopped. His fingers stilled, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. His eyes, glassy and dark, found Zhenya’s.

“Zhenya… could you—help me?”

The blond swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silence.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Probably.”

The blond reached for the lube, startled by the icy feeling against his fingertips. His pulse thudded in his temples as he settled between Taekjoo’s legs.

“Which hand should I…?” he began, instantly regretting it.

Taekjoo smiled faintly, amused even now. “Whichever works for you. Just go slow.”

He opened his knees a little wider, giving him more room. Zhenya looked up—Taekjoo’s gaze from above was soft, almost tender, but there was that same heat buried in it, the kind that made your palms sweat.

He eased his hand forward, bumping against Taekjoo’s two fingers—and almost jerked back.
Hot. Scalding. Somehow impossibly soft, slick, and tight all at once.

Zhenya froze, every nerve firing at once.

Jesus…

He tried to move—awkwardly, cautiously, unsure if he was helping or ruining everything. His breathing went uneven; his brain kept swinging between don’t hurt him and don’t look down—but of course he looked. The sight burned into him: the slow push of his fingers disappearing into that slick, trembling space; the way Taekjoo’s muscles tightened, relaxed, trembled again.

Taekjoo’s head tilted back. His lips parted on a shaky breath.

“Enough,” he said softly after a while, voice wrecked but steady. “That’s… enough.”

He exhaled, pulling his hand away. “Lie down on your back.”

Taekjoo climbed on top—steady and sure, but his eyes glinted with that same dangerous spark. His knees planted on either side of Zhenya’s hips, thighs opening, and the blond’s back sank deeper into the pillows beneath him.

The Korean had a condom in his hand. In the dark, the blond thought his fingers might be trembling, but when he leaned in, kissed him, and carefully rolled the rubber on, the movements were precise, confident.

Then he rose again, palms pressed flat to Zhenya’s chest. His skin shimmered faintly with sweat in the low light, giving his whole body a kind of charged, electric beauty. With one hand, he reached back, guiding Zhenya’s cock to his entrance, and with the other, he hold braced himself—never looking away—as he slowly, unhurriedly, sank down.

Heat. Pressure. Tightness.

“Holy fuc—” Zhenya groaned, arching into the mattress, head pressed hard against the pillows. His eyes widened and his hands gripped Taekjoo’s ass, fingers digging into the tense muscle like he was steadying himself. Nothing he’d felt before compared to this—too tight, too hot, too much. His spine pulled taut, his neck strained, veins standing out beneath the skin. He was being wrapped around, swallowed, squeezed from all sides.

“Shit…” he hissed. “How the hell…?”

“Don’t move,” Taekjoo murmured, freezing halfway down. “Give me a sec.”

He stilled, hips swaying minutely as he adjusted. His palms rested against Zhenya’s chest again, grounding himself. When he moved again, it was with more control—rising slowly, then settling back down, letting rhythm build naturally.

The blond couldn’t look away. He watched every inch of Taekjoo’s rise and fall, the way his lips parted slightly when he dropped back down, the way he bit them just a little. His hands traced up the damp curve of his back, feeling the taut shift of muscles with every motion. When Taekjoo rolled his hips just right, Zhenya let out a shaky breath.

“You’re doing this like it’s not your first time,” he rasped, barely holding himself together.

Taekjoo’s lips quirked.
“I’ve just… been wanting to do this with you for a long time. Since we first met,” he whispered, pace unbroken.

The words were like lightning down Zhenya’s spine. He thrust up to meet him, groaned, gripped harder—leaving bright marks on warm skin. When Taekjoo moved down especially deep, the sound tore out of him louder than before. The lean body shivered.

The Korean froze for a couple of seconds—breath stuttering, chest heaving offbeat—and then he moved again, his hips finding a new, more reckless rhythm. His ass met Zhenya’s skin with filthy, wet slaps, every touch sending a tremor through the blond’s stomach.

Propped on his elbows, Zhenya stared up—and nearly moaned from the sheer beauty of it: Taekjoo in the half-dark, hair damp, lip caught between his teeth, riding him as if made for it. Too fucking gorgeous.

“Fuck…” Zhenya gritted out, feeling himself twitch. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close…”

Taekjoo leaned in without slowing, voice thick as he murmured,
“Don’t hold back.”

He bit Zhenya’s lip, ground down harder, the press of skin to skin was electric. It was too much.

The blond grabbed his hips—caught him at the peak of his movement—and pulled him down with force, growling deep in his throat. Taekjoo gasped, then moaned, wrapping his legs tighter around Zhenya’s waist.

Zhenya bucked upward, switching the pace to brutal, focused, possessive. He drove deep, hands at Taekjoo’s waist, mouth devouring him, watching the way Taekjoo’s eyes fluttered back with pleasure. Fevered kisses broke on short sobs, rough moans, ragged breath, and a low, animal rumble.

At one sharp angle, the blond drove in deeper—and Taekjoo shuddered, a gasp ripping out of him like he’d been hit by a live wire.

“Jesus…” Zhenya moaned. “You’re clenching like you want to kill me.”

He couldn’t stop. Harder, deeper—again, again. Sweat glued their bodies. Zhenya’s orgasm was mounting, rising like a tidal wave. He moved and watched Taekjoo—the fine tremor, the damp hair, the shine of his skin, the faint flutter of lashes.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” the blond breathed in his ear, kissing him again, cinching an arm around his back to pull him closer.

Taekjoo didn’t answer—only held tighter, their bodies rocking in sync, hips rolling against him with hungry precision. And Zhenya broke. He plunged hard—once, twice, a third time—and went off inside him, his whole body knotting with a long, rough moan. His world flared white, tilted, and crashed.

He got lost in him, lost in himself. It was too close, too sharp—more than sex, something too dangerous and deep.

Zhenya lay on his back, studying the ceiling, panting like he’d run a couple of kilometers. Blood still thudded through his groin—softer now, almost soothing.

He reached down, slipped off the condom with slow fingers, tied it off, dropped it somewhere beside the bed. That’s when he felt it—a palm, drifting along his skin, low between his thighs. Lazy. Curious.

Taekjoo was next to him. Eyes closed, face soft, relaxed. Still hard.

The blond squinted. Yep. Very hard.

After all that? Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Taekjoo gently tapped his chest. Fingers brushed his nipple, circled it, then slid down his stomach.

“Would you mind,” Taekjoo began quietly, “if I asked for a… little tour?”

Zhenya raised an eyebrow.
“A tour?”

“Around the apartment. Or the shower. I just… don’t feel like lying down.”

The blond glanced at him—and then saw it: the smug little smirk, the full erection, and the complete lack of shame. Just lying there. Happy. Radiant. Still hard. Like this was perfectly normal.

“Pants-optional tour, or are you keeping it civilized?” he asked, voice rough as he sank back into the pillow.

Taekjoo grinned, leaned in, and nudged his forehead against Zhenya’s shoulder.
“If you’re fine with it — pants-optional.”

“Fucking marathon.”

But his hand still reached out—fingers sliding along Taekjoo’s stomach, tracing a slow circle low, low down—before he finally heaved himself upright with a soft grunt.

“Alright. Let’s go. Tour’s on.”

Chapter Text

The weekend vanished in a blink, leaving Monday’s soft, slack emptiness. Two nights—only two—in his apartment, and Zhenya already caught himself treating Taekjoo like a constant: that particular clean, warm smell of his skin, the way he fell asleep facedown on Zhenya’s chest, the soft breath that tickled along his shoulder until it slowed and evened out.

But Sunday was already running out. Midnight was coming—the carriage turning back into a pumpkin, the coachman into a rat. Time to loosen his hold and let Taekjoo go home.

Barefoot and shirtless, the blond stood at the wardrobe in cargo pants, riffling through stacks of tees, hunting for one without an oil stain. His hair was damp and disheveled from the shower; pink finger marks stood out on pale skin. He didn’t notice the heat of the gaze tracking him from the bed—curious and a little greedy.

Taekjoo lay on his stomach, naked, nose buried in the soft cotton. He’d washed first, had time to dry, and now just watched the blond move—quiet as a cat. Somehow, it got him hotter than the sex itself.

Muscles stood out under the blond’s skin: shoulder blades, deltoids, the line into his waist. When Zhenya leaned over to the lower drawer, the firm curve of his ass flexed under the thin fabric—a shrine piece for the devout.

“You… liked it?” Taekjoo asked, so calm and matter-of-fact it took a beat to understand what “it” meant.

Zhenya glanced up.
“What exactly?”

“Friday. That thing. It wasn’t your first time, right?”

The blond turned, met the dark eyes, then went back to the shirts—as if the bluntness embarrassed him.

“If you mean doing it right—yeah, first time. Had a couple of teenage trial runs… not exactly fond memories. Closed that tab—thought it was for good.” A crooked grin. “Then I met you.”

A pleased softness touched Taekjoo’s mouth.
“So with me—you liked it.”

He let out a satisfied breath; his gaze roamed Zhenya’s body, unhurried.
“By the way—you were… incredible. Confident. Hot.” He rolled onto his back, still looking. “And the way you took control at the end… I’ll be replaying that till next Friday when I’m tragically alone.” A faint flush crept into his cheeks.

Zhenya snorted, but the thanks sat plain in his voice.
“Get a pretty partner who actually gives a damn—would’ve been a sin not to put in the work.”

“So you made a move at the bar just because you liked the look of me?” Taekjoo’s eyes narrowed, teasing.

The blond pulled a shirt on, turned, and smirked.
“Yup. Calm as a coma, you were. I wasn’t planning anything. Wanted a closer look—face was too damn pretty. Then you got into my car… and, well, that was that.”

Taekjoo laughed.
“Hopeless romantic. Fine, accepted. And I’ll count ‘pretty face’ as a compliment.”

Zhenya’s mouth twitched. He bent for socks—and felt that sharp, hungry look again.

“You do realize I have zero desire to go back,” Taekjoo said lazily, rolling to his stomach, hugging a pillow under him. “Even if skipping this write-up means I don’t get my credit.”

“So you’ll blow it off?” the blond called over his shoulder.

“And retake? No way. But right now I’ve got things more important than lecture notes.” His eyes slid down Zhenya’s back and paused at his hips. “You look like you’re testing my patience on purpose.”

“I’m literally just getting dressed,” Zhenya said, smiling. He was stalling and knew it. The longer he fussed with the wardrobe, the later he’d have to start the engine.

“No,” Taekjoo shook his head. “You’re dragging it out.”

“Christ, I’m looking for socks.”

“And bending over so I can see everything.” He’d pushed upright now, not even pretending to hide the hunger in his eyes.

“Careful what you wish for, student.” Zhenya tossed the socks onto the bed and stepped closer, one knee sinking into the mattress. “One more word and you’re the one taking these pants off me.”

“You think I’d mind?” A spark lit in Taekjoo’s eyes.

For a beat, the air went taut—exactly like those nights they barely left the bed. Long fingers skimmed Zhenya’s spine from the small of his back up to his nape, slow, mapping every ridge.

“Fuck…” The blond arched, gooseflesh breaking along his sides. “So you’re planning to hold me hostage in my own place?”

“Promise to behave and I’ll let you go,” Taekjoo murmured, his voice warm with a soft threat.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll work you empty,” he breathed against his ear.
“You’re the snake in the garden,” Zhenya breathed. The hot air on his neck pooled into warmth low in his belly.

“And you look like an invitation to sin,” Taekjoo said with a laugh, thumb stroking his shoulder. “That back’s an athlete’s. From working in the garage?”

“From boxing—used to train,” the blond corrected. “And yeah, I haul metal for work.”

“I can tell.” Approval in the nod. His palm slid lower to the waistband. “And your legs look amazing.”

“That’s enough, student.” The blond caught his wrist, the grin back. “Up and at ’em.”

“Deal—if you swear you’ll wear these cargo pants more,” Taekjoo bargained. “They should be illegal on you.”

The blond snorted, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
“Get moving before I prove I own even more clothes.”

Taekjoo laughed, stood, and brushed his fingers over Zhenya’s nape—lingering a second like he didn’t want to let go.

On the nightstand, the phone lit with a soft blink. Time.

They sat in the car without turning on the headlights. The narrow alley outside was drowned in shadow, lit only by a slanted yellow beam from a streetlamp that glinted off the edge of the windshield. Warm air from the heater carried the scent of coffee, cigarettes, and the shower gel they’d used together.

Zhenya kept his hands on the wheel; his fingers mindlessly rubbed the stitched leather seams. He wanted to say something that mattered—but only garbage came to mind. His memory, cruel as ever, kept throwing images in his face: ragged breaths, Taekjoo’s hoarse “Don’t move,” the scorching heat of him, and that first moment he was buried so deep everything else ceased to exist. He wanted to close his eyes and relive that bliss—just once more.

“See you Friday, Taekjoo?” His voice still cracked.

“Sure,” he said, nodding, giving a faint smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t hurry to open the door; his dark gaze lingered on Zhenya’s face, like he was memorizing every detail. Cool fingers touched Zhenya’s cheek—carefully, with some inexplicable tenderness. And before Zhenya could blurt out something stupid again, Taekjoo leaned in and kissed him—softly, with a bitter aftertaste, like their goodbye had come too soon.

The blond swallowed. A sharp ache curled beneath his ribs.

“Thanks for the ride,” Taekjoo said quietly, hand still resting on his face.

“Yeah… sure.”

A silence settled. Outside, wind pushed sparse raindrops across the window. Zhenya stared at the wet asphalt.

“If you… I dunno… Just text me or... whatever.”

The Korean frowned lightly. “What do you mean, ‘if’?”

“Nothing,” Zhenya said with a shrug. “Forget it. Go on.”

Taekjoo kept looking at him for a few more seconds, as if trying to figure something out, but said nothing. Just gave a small nod, got out, and shut the door. The sound was like a gunshot.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder, turned like he wanted to say something else—but only waved and walked toward the building. His footsteps echoed on the wet pavement.

The blond stayed in the driver’s seat with that gnawing feeling that the apartment would be painfully empty for the next week. And that silence—real silence—was worse than any goodbye. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. His cheeks burned. His eyes followed Taekjoo’s dark figure in the side mirror until it disappeared under the yellow glow of the streetlamps.

Fuck… That wasn’t enough. Not even close.

Zhenya flicked the turn signal and hit the gas. The car surged forward.

Inside, everything was muffled, like the sound had been drowned in cotton. He drove through the labyrinth of backstreets on autopilot, then slipped out onto a wide avenue.

The BMW glided through the city, obediently stopping at reds, signaling every lane change. Zhenya forced his focus onto driving as if it could somehow silence the hollow ache in his chest.

He already missed him. And he knew—by Friday, it’d be unbearable.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” came the voice on the other end—soft, warm.

Zhenya’s mouth stretched into a stupid smile.

“I’ll swing by at five. You gonna be ready?” He leaned his forehead to the cold window, feeling satisfaction settle inside him like a heavy, warm weight.

Tonight promised to be so damn good his fingers tingled—like a high schooler before a first date.

Before the call he’d been wandering the kitchen with a mug of tea, barely keeping a lid on his impatience: in his jeans pocket lay the key to a Mercedes-AMG GT 63 S E[1]. A lavish freebie from a buddy to square an old debt: some spoiled rapper had fucked up with the FTS[2], the car got impounded, and now it was gathering dust at the lot. The trick was, it needed to be taken out “for a walk” now and then so the battery wouldn’t die in the cold. And today was the day.
Sure, a little caution wouldn’t hurt—cameras, traffic cops, the whole deal—but a different song was looping in Zhenya’s head.

He kept replaying the meet-up: pulling up for Taekjoo, swinging open the door of that black, shark-snouted coupe on glossy rims, and the Korean sliding into the seat. He wanted him to sit—and forget how to breathe for a second. The blond didn’t give a shit about the fancy interior or the exhaust sound; he needed that first heartbeat when a voice breaks on a quiet “whoa.”

He clung to that thought all day like a life raft. Mapped the route, rehearsed the way he’d drop into the driver’s seat, even picked the track list.

The Mercedes itself pumped his veins with adrenaline: a black arrow straight off a magazine cover. Not just a car—his own private jet on wheels. He could almost hear the click of the passenger seat-belt tongue, could see the way those dark eyes would greedily take in the tech. And there was plenty to stare at: twin-screen panoramic dash, stock ambient lighting, touchpads on the wheel, “smart” seats with massage—the whole damn package wrapped in metal, chrome, leather, and Alcantara.

He wanted to show it off. Maybe—show himself in the driver's seat. Do a lap of the night city like last time. Feel Taekjoo go still when the needle swept past a hundred and the engine growled sweet as a beast.

“Zhenya…” the voice on the line suddenly went heavy. “I’m really sorry. I can’t make it tonight. I’m buried in assignments. I won’t have time. Let’s do next weekend?”

One second.
In his head—the screech of hard brakes.

What the hell?

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘can’t’?” It came out rougher than he’d planned.

“I’m sorry… really. I have to cram. There’s a lot.”

Silence. Zhenya crushed the mug until his knuckles went white. His heart pounded in his throat; his face felt hot.

“Right… see you,” he forced out, dry.

“Zhenya, I—”

Click. Dead air.
And he boiled over.

“Fuck this. Just fucking bullshit!” The mug hit the sink with a dead thud; water sprayed the counter. It probably shattered. He hurled the phone onto the couch, then snatched it up again immediately. Stared at the call log, thumb twitching over the screen. He wanted to smash it against the wall, but it was too fucking expensive.

No fucking way. He promised. He’d been here—right here—in his bed, in his life.

Rage clamped bony fingers around his throat. Breathing turned hard. His legs carried him down the hall on their own.

He caught his reflection in the wardrobe door: eyes shot through with red, jaw locked, the cords in his neck pulled tight like rope. He yanked on a jacket, shoved his feet into his sneakers.

The keys burned in his pocket. He froze at the window for half a second, looking down at the city—buildings, streetlights, the odd car. Everything down there looked tiny and pointless. It felt like he was the same—small, invisible, good for nothing.

He could still drive over, right? Just show up to see his eyes, hear his voice.

What the fuck for? So it looks like I crawled back on my belly like some goddamn lapdog?

The thought slit his throat on the way out, nicked his pride, and made it easier to shove himself out the door. It slammed so hard the stairwell walls shuddered. He still had no idea where he was going.

Fuck it.
Not the first and sure as hell not the last.

Only inside, everything burned like red-hot iron.
As if this one were the first.
And as if—the last.

Driving didn’t bring its usual relief. Rush hour, gridlock, that endless shriek of brakes. Felt like he’d collected every goddamn jam in the city. Everyone was bailing out of Petersburg for the weekend; the roads were stuffed—worst time imaginable to go for a joyride.

He finally muscled off the expressway and pointed the car toward home. Inside, everything felt filthy, and he needed to do something—anything—to prove to himself he wasn’t hung up on Taekjoo and wasn’t losing his shit over being blown off.

The E60 slipped back into its spot and went dead. The blond stared through the windshield and smoked in silence. Windows down; raw autumn wind knifed the warm air and chased the fumes around the cabin.

He burned the cigarette to the filter, flicked it to the asphalt, pulled out his phone, turned it in his fingers.
“Not the first and not the last”—the line dragged around his skull like a scratched record, needle grinding.

Screw it.

He found Liza in his contacts and hit call. She picked up on the third try.

“Hey, Zhenya!” Her voice was a little hoarse; in the background—a dull bass throb, laughter, somebody howling.

“You home?”

“Nope.” A loud sniff. “At a crash-pad party. It’s a riot. Get over here—you need this. We’ve got… everything. You’ll blow off some steam.”

Someone in the background was already cackling and yelling, “Let’s get wrecked!”

“Where?”

“Kupchino[3]. Pasha-the-Dealer’s birthday. I’ll drop the address in Telegram.”

“Yeah.”

The call cut, the messenger pinged a second later. Zhenya’s gut dipped: the address rang way too familiar. He’d been there. And he knew exactly how those “parties” ended.

He stared at the screen, weighing it—go or don’t. Usually he saw Liza just to screw and leave. No witnesses, no production. But tonight she was dragging him into that snakepit herself, and from her voice it was obvious—she was already high.

Memory helpfully threw up a snapshot, like it wanted to save him from doing something impulsive: him crawling out of that same apartment in his own puke so he didn’t die on the linoleum.

He had that hardwired stupid trait—no half-measures. Back then it had looked laughably simple: someone else’s kitchen, a buddy cackling, a bottle, a couple of lines, a pill “for fun.” Nothing serious, he’d said—everybody does it. So the blond took it. Full dose, right off the bat.

An hour later his pupils on methadone[4] pinholed to nothing; he could barely see—a narrow dark tunnel straight ahead. Two hours after that he was climbing the stairs for what felt like a century, drenching in cold sweat, then face-planting into the dirty snow by the entrance, praying his heart didn’t take a timeout. Luck, that time—some decent people called an ambulance. His ex-buddy didn’t get lucky: he checked out right there in the kitchen.

When the medic slammed Naloxone[5] into him, it tasted like ambrosia: his mind broke the surface, his heart found a steady beat, color snapped back into the world, and a riot of sound punched his eardrums. Everything felt razor-sharp—even the winter air his mouth shoveled into his lungs. That’s when he realized he was alive, and it almost scared him after skirting the edge. Zhenya swore off the hard stuff.

He wasn’t planning to wade into that swamp twice. Right now he just wanted to erase this evening out of his head—with noise, smoke, and other people’s hands. In those crash-pads everything seems simpler: nobody asks what you feel, nobody looks at you like they can see straight through.
To hell with it, then. If that’s where we’re going, that’s where we’re going. Last time he’d had “circumstances.” This time… this time he wouldn’t take anything heavy—he knew his limits. Hit a blunt, space out, chill. Maybe screw some cute girl—then go home. All under control. Just a break.

He just didn’t want to sit here. In this kitchen, in this apartment, in this silence—alone with himself. He wanted anywhere else: a party, Liza, the usual filth—anything, so he didn’t have to hear his own head.

Something jabbed inside. Like he’d just admitted it to himself: he wasn’t going to the girl—he was sticking his head back in the lion’s mouth. Or, in his case, hustling to shake hands with the Reaper. If he went under—maybe Liza would pull him out. Maybe not. Depends how the dice roll.

Driving there would be idiotic: last thing he needed was extra legal trouble. Subway, taxi—whatever. As long as he wasn’t behind the wheel.

He blew out a hard breath, stepped out of the car, and slammed the door.

That’s it. Fuck it—we ball.

Chapter Text

Zhenya kept sinking lower. The elevator crawled toward the first floor, and he stared at his own pissed-off face in the mirror: brows jammed together, a deep crease cutting across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Hair wrecked and sticking up like someone had just had their hands in it. And he’d even dressed up—like it was a fucking date.

Outside, the blond dove into the subway and rode the escalator down—step after step, dropping under the city.
The platform slapped him with hot air and creosote tang. He liked it down here: grease and machine oil mixed with electricity, metal dust, and damp tunnel breath that tickled his nose. The steady clap of wheels turned into a lullaby while Zhenya stared blankly at dull commuter faces in motion.

Kupchino met him with rows of Soviet-era panel-block estates and a light patina of the nineties as soon as he turned off the showy modern facades. He checked the address: same as in his previous life. Down-floor apartment, windows level with the ground, flaking bars on the frames. Nothing had changed.

Circling the building, the blond found the separate entrance: a time-chewed concrete staircase led down into a dark mouth. On the way he was already dialing Liza—no one here would be happy to see a stranger.

Two minutes later he was inside. Seemed like nothing had changed at all. Even the smell was the same: stale booze breath, sweat, cigarettes, and cheap women’s perfume. Too little light—colored LEDs tried to compensate and just smeared the walls in sick, unnatural shades. From the speakers blasted another “profound” Russian rap track: the guy was tearing his throat, repeating every damn line about what he’d done “exactly five minutes ago.”*

Zhenya moved toward where the music hammered his temples—into the living room. Huge couch along the wall, and in front of it a table buried under plastic cups, crumpled blister packs, and ziplock bags of white crumbs. Off to the side—one of those little mirrors with crooked rails on it. Somebody must love watching their own nostrils while they inhale, huh? Fingers kept reaching for the table; lighters clicked, noses snuffled, somebody cackled like a lunatic.

Long story short, Yevgeny—welcome to the bad party.*

He dropped into a free spot, crossed one leg over the other, and lit up. On his left Liza was making out with a very young girl with purple hair. The kid wore a short sparkly dress already hiked almost to her waist; under it, legs in fishnet tights with a hole at the knee, and filthy white Converse for dessert. Collarbones like coat hangers, shoulder blades cutting the skin, wrists thin as wire, the crooks of her arms were dotted blue with pinpricks and a scatter of multicolored bruises like confetti. With that loadout you rarely make twenty-five.

The girls were soft-moaning, smeared with glitter and melted mascara, tongues colliding while their hands roamed each other’s bodies. It might’ve been hot if not for the guy nearby with half-shut eyes dripping something under his tongue.

Zhenya looked away. Someone shoved a red plastic cup into his hand, pink liquid sloshing. It smelled of boxed berry juice, syrupy soda, and vodka—chemical and cloying.

“Why so sad, pretty boy?” A lanky dude with greasy hair flopped down beside him.

“I’m fucking fine,” Zhenya waved him off and drank the nasty swill. He was hot; he tugged the neck of his snow-white tee, feeling sweat bead along his neck in the stale heat.

He drank. Then more. And some more. A half-finished joint found his hand—the blond pulled deep, heavy smoke scraping his lungs on the way down. To scrub the oily film off his tongue, he chased it with the same sugary rotgut.

When someone tried to kiss him, the blond turned his face away. When someone started grinding on him—he just shoved them off. Nothing inside moved except tired indifference.

For whatever reason, instead of loosening him, the weed pulled a crooked idiot grin across his mouth. He wanted to laugh out loud watching a wrecked kid in the corner rasping lyrics straight at the wall, tripping over every other line: “Детка, выброси “косой”, давай заново…”*
Again. And again.
Like a record with the needle stuck.

By then the room was stuffed to the ceiling with smoke and heat; sweat slicked his temples, clothes glued to skin. Voices blurred into the music, all of it one meaningless noise.

“Here,” a shaggy-haired kid with dead eyes nudged a ziplock bag of powder toward him.

Zhenya shook his head.
“I’m not snorting that.”

“C’mon,” the guy snorted. “Just once. Good stuff.”

“Fuck off,” the blond said, dropping his head against the musty back of the couch.

The kid only shrugged.

The weed, against expectations, wasn’t hitting right. He couldn’t relax or let anything go. On the contrary: one vile thought kept throbbing: not the first and not the last…

Ah, to hell with it.

Zhenya clenched his jaw and turned back to the shaggy one with the dope. The blond just stared at him, and the kid leaned in close, whispering hotly in a sing-song right in his ear:
“I will show to you my pockets—and you’ll see what I hide. It will be our secret. Zip it. Tell no one outside.”*

The blond blinked.

Christ—poetry now, too.

Grinning with rotten teeth, the guy did a magician’s flourish and fished a tiny clear bag out. Inside, round matte tablets rolled against each other. He snapped it open and spilled a handful onto his palm.

“How ’bout these?” he purred. “Mescaline[1]. Pure.”

Zhenya took one carefully. As if it wasn’t a pill but a beetle with poisonous antennae. He set it on his palm and turned it between his fingers for a long time, feeling the dry, gritty surface.

“What’s it do?” he asked, low, not looking up.

“Beauty,” the longhair melted into a blissed-out smile. “The bad memories back off. Head goes clean. Positive vibes, warmth through the body, everybody around feels like brothers. You chill, you ride the high. Like Granddaddy Purps, only brighter.”

The blond squinted. Even his nostrils twitched.

“How long?”

“Three, four hours—depends how the wave treats you.”

He looked at the pill again. One thought flashed: If this doesn’t help now—nothing will. His teeth clamped tighter—last little barricade of common sense.

“Fine,” he exhaled—and, squeezing his eyes shut like he was diving. The blond dropped the tablet on his tongue and washed it down with the cup’s warm crap.

He felt the little round slide down his throat, leaving a dry chalk flavor. He chased it with another gulp; the aftertaste stuck anyway. The shaggy one patted his shoulder and melted into the crowd.

Nothing happened at first. Only the music slowly turned into an unintelligible hum that seemed to press outward on his eardrums, and the smell of stale smoke and chemical booze sharpened to a knife. The blond leaned back into the sunken couch, fished out a cigarette, and drew on it with real pleasure.

How long—five minutes? Half an hour? Time slumped and spread like jelly. People moved too slowly, but their voices speed up, outrunning his thoughts. Smiles stretched too wide on strangers’ mouths; eyes went all pupil, black swallowing color. Faces lost their proportions, grotesquely lengthening.

He fixed on the LED strip under the ceiling. It smeared slowly, like a drop of oil in water, then suddenly flared so hard his eyes watered.

Warmth started through his body, but the wrong kind—sticky, strangling. His heart banged faster in his chest. The skin of his face kept flipping from cold to hot; his palms sweated like he’d dunked them in water. He dropped his gaze to his own knees. They looked lengthened and stretched—farther away than they should be.

Holy shit…

He tried to stand and everything inside went cold: his legs wouldn’t obey. At all. Like somebody had cut the line between brain and body. A thick, syrupy fear clenched in his chest.

What the fuck…

He made another try to sit up and just collapsed again, feeling a nervous tremor crawl up his back. Panic crushed over him like a sharp, icy wave. Everything around got louder, as if ten speaker stacks had swung to face him. He stared at the ceiling, then back down at his legs, trying to feel them.
His fingers found denim and he started rubbing, methodically: thighs, knees, shins, over and over, until a dull but real sense of warm skin came back. Only then did he manage to push himself upright.

A picture flashed—an old one: same den, tacky floor, him dragging himself toward the door just to make it to the bathroom. Then he’d hauled himself on his elbows, oozing into the stairwell, stinking of puke and slick with sweat.

Pull yourself together, daughter of a samurai…* What daughter, for fuck’s sake. Son.
He’d get up tonight too. The path matters more than the goal.

Fuckin’ samurai… Shit… Philosopher prick. Brain’s clearly not all there. Is the whole trip gonna be like this?

The playlist seemed to have clicked over three times; the same “Давай заново” kept coming back in new voices. Ash on his cigarette stretched into a long brittle needle, fell—and grew again.

Zhenya staggered to his feet, swaying, one palm dragging along the wall.

The music was smashing his skullcase into pieces; it made him want to puke. The hallway pulled long like a funhouse mirror until his nose bumped a door. Quieter here.

“Детка, прости долбоёба, давай заново…”* drifted out of a room, and the endless loop made him nauseous again.

Weirdly, those dumb words hit harder than they should have. Or maybe it was just another dirty trick from his own head—mixing personal shit into somebody else’s chorus.

Zhenya stepped into the bathroom and felt his stomach trade places with his lungs. The sink and the tiles around it were flecked with vomit; sticky streaks trailed to the drain, and the air was a sweet-sour stench that clawed at his throat. On the tub’s rim lay a crushed pack of cigarettes and a pink razor with clotted hairs stuck in it. Filth.

The blond turned on the faucet. He caught his reflection in the mirror—blurry, double—and spat into the basin, watching the water spin away. He wanted to scrub his hands and get as far from here as possible.

He’d only wanted to distract himself. Came out shitty.

He’d meant to show up and bounce by taxi—not get wrecked so bad the high wouldn’t let go for hours. Time inside the high turned to jelly, sagging and sliding off the clock.

The wave gripped tighter—anger, panic, a sour itch of fear. The blond was shaking in small shivers, sweat running, and he was trying to hole up in the kitchen where there were fewer people. But a bad trip doesn’t care if you want to be alone: a shaggy, skinny kid—probably legal, maybe—had already melted across a stool and glued himself to him like wet paper.

He watched the boy from outside himself, like in slow motion. Heat—or the mescaline—rolled in fat drops down his back; Zhenya’s heart seemed to thud out of sync with the music. The worry climbed on a crooked curve.
He wiped his wet palms on his jeans and gripped the plastic cup again. Thirst gnawed. He wanted to rinse out that oily chemical film on his tongue—the thing that clenched his jaw and tightened his neck.

“I got a buddy who’s a rapper,” the kid started with no preface, snapping fingers like he was catching a rhythm that didn’t exist. “We, like, run the borough. Y’know… we hang. But, fuck, I don’t wanna go to uni, my folks are on my ass. I just wanna game and drift. You like the cheese Cheetos, by the way?”

The blond blinked at the three stripes on his tracksuit.

Adidas? For real? Full gopnik core… or is that back in style now?

He squeezed his eyes shut so hard it went white under the lids; opened them—the blazed idiot was still there. The black in the kid’s clothes was blacker. Zhenya’s scalp prickled, hair stirred in a breeze that wasn’t there.

The guy tugged his collar and puffed his chest, showing off. For a second the stripes from his suit shivered and knotted into a grid. Zhenya blinked—back to normal.

“You’re pretty,” the shaggy one announced. The corners of his mouth wriggled into a dumb grin. “Just like this girl in my class! Same fair skin, hair… Me and my buddy… y’know, the rapper… at a crash-pad party… well, you get it, heh-heh… ran a train on her. Ahahaha!”

Laughter rasped the quiet open; he flung his head back and smacked his knee, then snapped stone-serious again, staring up from under lashes. Eyes like saucers—no iris left, just pupils. His breath stank rotten.

Zhenya’s body seized, getting worse by the second. Another sweep of cold sweat—gooseflesh crawled his arms, his stomach cinched into a hard knot.

Where’s that promised relax, huh? Fucking mescaline magician…

“You listen to rap? Who you into? I want real top-tier drip. How much to get a license? I wanna drive a sick car. You drive?” He rattled it all on one breath, tripping over words; sound lagged behind his mouth. His hands had their own agenda—yanking a drawstring, palming his face, snagging the table edge—couldn’t sit still for a single second.

The ceiling lamp was playing cartoons too: breathing, swelling, slowly sagging. Its yellow glow had a vinegar sting.

Zhenya nudged the cup away and folded down onto the table, chest to the sticky surface. He watched the baked-out kid like a TV someone forgot to turn off after the nightly news.

Christ, how much of that K2 did this moron fucking swallow?

“You look like an angel,” the kid hiccupped, inching closer. The words rustled dully. “For real. Mega kind. You… you’re the only one who listens to me.” Tears started pooling; he pressed in and laid his head on Zhenya’s shoulder.

The blond flinched at the clammy press of that body. Too skinny, too bony. Sweat, cheap deodorant, and sweet chemical funk scratched the roof of his mouth. His shoulder twitched on its own, shaking the crap off.

The wasted stoner drifted back for a second, started rocking on the stool and keening in falsetto, reaching for the nastiest, screechiest notes. Zhenya winced.

“I gotta thank you,” the boy blurted. “Angels gotta be thanked. I—” He slid down awkwardly and ended up between the blond’s knees—where the blond hadn’t given him any fucking access. His body jolted too late—like the signals from his brain were delayed. His own hands felt foreign. He didn’t even get a word out before the kid yanked his zipper and dragged Zhenya's dick free. Of course it was limp.

The junkie started slobbering at it with gusto, enthusiastic as a puppy, and nausea surged up Zhenya’s throat again. The kid’s thin arms looked like they’d grown extra joints; fingers scuttled apart like spooked insects. The ones that “stayed” moved in jerks, clumsy as hell. A quiet, pissed laugh hissed out of Zhenya’s chest—from helplessness, from the absurdity.

What the fuck!? This needs to stop.

The blowjob was… nothing. If you could call it that. Like a big dog’s lick. The blond observed the kid’s yellow teeth and gray-pink gums. His own flesh seemed to shrink smaller out of disgust. A string of warm, gummy drool slid off the guy’s chin and slapped onto the floor.

The comparison flashed up from the sewage in his head all by itself: Taekjoo had held different—firm, hungry, alive. Here—it was bargain-bin amateur porn. Adidas boy was a snotty old rottweiler.
The junkie pitched forward, nose to his groin. Zhenya’s eyes watched from a distance as the three stripes turned into snakes—or worms—and curled around his calves.

He barely moved his hands—weak, like his muscles weren’t his—hesitated, then caught the baked kid by the nape and eased him off, inch by inch.

“That’s it. Enough. Fuck off.”

“I… I just…” the kid stammered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… you look… angelic…” His eyes flooded again.
It smelled salty.

“Enough. Seriously. You’re annoying,” Zhenya exhaled. Electricity buzzed under his skin; it felt like sweat drops were being minted right out of his pores. The trip pulled tight like wire, vibrating to the horrific beat in the living room. A red LED blinked in a corner—just for a second it felt like a camera was recording the whole disgrace.

They’ll come in now. Any second. You hear that, Yevgeny? Footsteps.

He shook his head. Nothing. Only rustles, and the dead bass thump.

“You don’t want to? I just… I thought you were kind…”

Zhenya stood up, wobbling, zipping himself up as he went.

His legs barely obeyed every other command, but with the first awkward step came the tiniest reprieve: his breathing evened; the room’s roar dipped—as if the chemical wave retreated half a meter. Didn’t let go—just left him alone for a few minutes.

He wasn’t listening to the whiny bleating behind him anymore. The white “snakes” finally fled his ankles and disappeared under the fridge.
Time to get the hell out.

The blond staggered out into the hall and shoved the kitchen door shut, tight. The kid mumbled at his back but the voice drowned under the music. Someone else’s spit clung to his crotch—sticky, vomit-adjacent.
He wanted to go home. And take a shower.

On the way he stepped over some wasted dumbass and reached for the coat rack. The handle creaked behind him—the junkie oozed into the corridor.

The idiot looked worse: hair more bird-nested, face puffed and shiny with greasy sweat; tear tracks crusted pale on his cheeks. His gait was drunk, eyes glassy, lips puffed and bluish. He slid past, one hand on the wall, and drifted into the bathroom.

Zhenya tracked him with a flat look and, without thinking, checked his fly.

Liza stood in the doorway, watching the whole scene with bright interest, eyes ticking between the cracked-open door and the blond’s crotch. Naked, joint clamped between her teeth, loose skin trembling on her thighs. The kitchen light hit from the side—dirty yellow, trembling. It turned her face gray, her eyes hollow.

“So, did your dick finally wake up?” she smirked, flicking ash to the floor. “Maybe you’re a fag, Zhenya?”

“Maybe,” he said, tired

His respite ended as quietly as it began. The drug fanned out through his blood again, revving the synthetic rot around his system. His vision lagged half a beat behind his head turns. Even anger felt slowed, like walking through syrup.

Liza looked pathetic. And not because she was naked—because it was all for a dose. He looked at her again and felt the gag rise. He’d slept with her. Filthy. Next to Taekjoo there was never this kind of “filthy”—not even at their wildest. That was electricity, gamble, bright breath of life. Here—just a sour sludge. Tastes like shit.

“You’ve gotten picky, Zheka,” the brunette said, drawing on the joint, eyes cutting sideways. “I gave you everything, and you couldn’t even fuck me properly. What, some pussy got you now?”

He laughed, mean.
“I gave you dope. You gave me—what? A hole half the city’s been through.”

“Yeah,” Liza licked her lips. “And that worked for you.”

“Nothing lasts. You mad I’m not bringing you pills anymore, is that it?”

“I was your lifeline when you were disgusted with yourself. And now I’m mad at you ‘cause you’re playing the saint.” She leaned in a fraction, a sharp twang of mockery in her voice. “Whatever you promised her, remember this: any day you can die in a ditch or kiss the guardrail on the highway in your precious car. But maybe she’ll enjoy the young widow vibe—who knows.”

Zhenya’s jaw locked.

“So tell me, who’s that baby nympho? Who’s giving you the full package now, huh?” Liza sing-songed, rocking on her heels.

“Not your damn doggy business.”

She jerked—sharp, ragged motion. Like a moth to a bulb—and no clue it’s about to burn.

“Oh, don’t boil over,” the brunette squinted through smoke. “I just miss the old you. You used to be more fun. Now somebody’s tamed you. What, you actually fell in love?”

In the pink wash of her place—like that one night—she could pass for younger, almost pretty. Now the light of this junkie burrow hauled everything to the surface: bruised crescents under her eyes, a tremor in her fingers, that baked-in fatigue.
Used up. Hopeless.

“Go take care of the girl on your couch. Fuck her. Leave me alone,” the blond said quietly.

“You just don’t know how to be grateful,” irritation flashed in her voice. “People share with you and you just snort. Oh this dangerous boy finally got attached to someone, huh?”

“Liza, shut up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go. Just don’t cry when she dumps you soon. You’re all the same. You want warmth… but you’re so cold, like an iceberg in the oceaaaan!”* she croaked, shamelessly off-key.

Zhenya hauled on his jacket.

“Even if you don’t die on your own, you’ve got no future anyway. You’re so damn high and going to your princess like that?” she said almost tenderly, like stating the obvious. “I know what you do, Zhenechka. Guys like you only get two endings—jail or a grave.”

The blond jammed his feet into his sneakers, barely knotting the laces. His fingers were shaking—not from cold, but because Taekjoo’s face had flared up again in his head—sharp, clean.

Next to him, Liza looked even grayer.

He pulled the front door shut with effort—and froze. The lock’s deadbolt snapped from inside, loud in the night silence. The landing was murky; a weak twenty-watt bulb hung half-dead, tethered to the ceiling by a twist of thin wire. The stairwell smelled like piss that the bleach couldn’t kill.

Not the first—and not the last…
Yeah? Then who wasn’t the first? And who, right now, is the last?

The blond smoked right there on the landing, eyes pinned to the yellowed ceiling like it might answer for the night. Then he fished out his phone and thumbed through contacts. Found the number, called it. They picked up instantly, on the very first ring.

“Good evening, taxi dispatch. Where are we picking you up from?”

Silence.

“Hello? Sir?”

He rattled off the address on autopilot and hung up—before the dispatcher could get to the usual crap about luggage, a child seat, or pets. Everything grated. A wave of bone-deep exhaustion rolled over him and sat on his chest.

About ten minutes later the cell rattled in his palm, and fate, that hack comic, tossed him another gag: a white Lada Granta[2] nosed hard to the curb. The squeal of the brake pads slid through his ears like a box cutter. When was the last time he’d climbed into a shitbox like this? Who the hell knew.

No real choice—he got in. He pressed his forehead to the cold window. Streetlights smeared into pale puddles across the glass; the city outside was a flipbook, then a blur. The driver’s style made him grind his teeth: too slow, then lurching; pedals tossed around like the guy couldn’t remember which was gas and which was brake. Zhenya closed his eyes, fighting sleep—blacked out anyway.

A rough jab to the shoulder hauled him back when the car stopped.

“We’re here. One thousand four hundred fifty rubles.”

The blond arched his brows at the fare but didn’t argue—shoved over the cash and spilled into the cold.

He blinked hard, and the scene bled up out of the dark: a peeling facade, a few dull squares of light, plastic dorm doors with a night clerk parked inside under buzzing fluorescent tubes. He froze, staring stupidly ahead, his brain lagging, melted and reset by the chemicals. Then recognition climbed him like a slow rash.

Fuck me. I’m in a goddamn K-drama.

It hit him as hysterically funny—so dumb and on the nose it split him open. First a bark scraped out of his throat, then a rasp that broke into a full-on giggle fit.

“Fuuuuuck…” he wheezed, eyes wet, absolutely unable to stop.

The laughter came in waves, wringing the last oxygen from his lungs. He folded in half; his abs cramped; he couldn’t even stand—crouched, gripping his knees, shaking, hiccupping, rasping. Tears slicked down his face. In his temples, the comedown thumped an uneven pulse like a drunk drummer.

Christ, I’m the lead in this cheap-ass shit. In five minutes the snow’s gonna start and he’ll walk out with a cup of coffee…

The thought finished him; he almost dropped on his ass, ready to drum the asphalt with his fists like an idiot. He threw his head back and yelled at the Petersburg sky:
“I didn’t know we were shooting today, for fuck’s sake! Where’s the screenwriter?”

One word flashed in his skull—cliché. A goddamn cliché where the hero shows up at “the one’s” place in the middle of the night.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…” he gasped—and tumbled back into hoarse, broken laughter.

Eventually the fit ran out of steam. He slumped onto the cold curb, pawing through his pockets. His stomach still twitched with leftover snorts, but the fun was gone—reality sat heavy and wet in his gut. He flicked the lighter, drew deep; the nicotine’s bitter edge tamped down the sickly chemical sugar glued to his throat.

His ass was freezing. Swaying, he pushed up, shambled to a stiff bench and dropped onto it, yanking his hood up and his jacket tight. Three in the morning. Saint Petersburg was blown out—like a runner bent over, hands on knees, wheezing white steam. The air was glass; every breath sliced at his throat with crystalline cold. He jammed his hands deeper in his pockets; his fingers were red and stupid. The cigarette warmed nothing. Without it, worse.

He stood to coax a little heat back, and his stomach sloshed with a nauseous cocktail of cheap booze and fake mescaline. He’d wanted one of two miracles: either it let him go, or it knocked him clean out. Neither showed. Instead the bad trip swooped in again and cuffed him across the skull.

His legs jittered under thin denim; his fingers cramped. That rancid chemical taste still clung in his mouth; the smoke couldn’t wash it out. The synthetic filth was loosening its claws, so the comedown rolled in—cold-sweating his back and pelting him with ugly thoughts that made his hands shake.

Why the hell did I even go there?… Why those pills, that K2 crap everywhere, those drunk, ugly faces?…
That’s not me.
Or is it?

He clenched his teeth. He wanted to puke it all out—especially the thoughts, the little shame-stink memories of the night. His phone kept vanishing into his pocket and reappearing in his palm like it had a mind of its own.

Open the app? Text? Call? Say what—I got fucked up and I want to see you?
What if he’s asleep?

03:12 blinked up at him. Dead night. Asleep.
Phone away.
Out again. Unlocked. “You up?”—deleted. “I’m outsi—” —deleted. “I feel like shit”—deleted.

Pocketed it.
Pulled it out again. His fingers shook like mercury was running through his veins, not blood.

If the cops roll up and ask why I’m sitting here… I’ve got nothing.
Pupils blown wide, mid-comedown, loitering by a student dorm. What a stellar romantic, huh. All I’m missing is flowers and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

He dragged deep and blew smoke out hard, a white sheet in the cold.

Feels like shit.
Cold as hell.
Coffee would help. Or slamming my head into a wall twice—maybe it’d flip the switch.
I just wanted to see him—and I’m freezing my ass off.
How long has it been? Ten minutes? An hour?

Time oozed and stuck. Someone sat down beside him—a dark silhouette in a puffy jacket. He didn’t look over; probably another student sneaking for a smoke. A lighter rasped once, twice—the click rolled through the yard like a pebble skittering on ice. The shadow shifted.

The blond moved—late, like his thoughts finally caught up to his body.

Holy shit. Taekjoo.

Black puffer, track pants, sleep-crumpled face, the little dent from glasses on the bridge of his nose. Red-rimmed, tired eyes. He smelled like warmth, shampoo, and that particular citrus note that was him.

Zhenya’s lit cigarette dipped, dropped from his lips, hissed out on ground. The other guy looked just as startled.

“Zhenya?.. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

He blinked. His heart jittered against his ribs, bird-fast.

“I… was just passing by,” he muttered, weak, shamelessly staring at Taekjoo’s face.

Taekjoo looked straight back, unblinking.
“It’s three a.m.,” he said.

Zhenya shrugged.
“So what?”

Beat.

The Korean frowned a little, glanced past him, then back.

“You smell… off,” he said softly, almost flat, sniffing twice like he was checking.

Zhenya’s mouth tugged crooked.
“Reek, huh?”

“Mmm… yeah. Kinda does. Where were you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t bother to lie—and didn’t tell the truth either. The words hung between them like a heavy cord you couldn’t cut with a joke or a lungful of smoke.

“Taekjoo, you… you really can’t come back to mine right now?” he blurted too fast, tripping on syllables.

Taekjoo shook his head.
“I have to study. Exams are soon. I’m behind.”

“Got it.” Zhenya hunched, eyes dropping to the ground. “I just… came to see you.”

A small nod. His gaze softened.
“Sorry we didn’t get to see each other. Want me to sit with you for a bit?”

“Yeah,” Zhenya said.

They sat shoulder to shoulder like that was the plan all along. Somewhere in the yard, ice crusts over shallow puddles popped under the occasional steps of a night owl cutting across the quad. Zhenya lit another cigarette; Taekjoo did too. Their breath streamed white; the shared silence felt almost—barely—warm.

At some point Zhenya realized he wasn’t shaking anymore. His fingers had unclenched. The nausea ebbed; breath slid in clean and full, like the air forgave him for a minute.

He smoked to the filter, hands numb and dumb with cold. Taekjoo sighed.
“Go home. Sleep. Take a shower,” he said—and, at parting, pressed a quick kiss to Zhenya’s lips, squeezed his shoulder once. “Good night.”

Zhenya watched him go for a long time, that soft prickling heat still needling his mouth. He still couldn’t make himself say the words he’d wanted to. Fucking coward.

After that, he opened the app and called a car. The ride home felt endless.

He woke to a flat, gray morning—and felt the same inside. His mouth tasted like straight chemicals; his skull hummed dully; his skin was tacky with sweat from a shitty, chopped-up nap on the couch. And the very first thought wasn’t even his own—it was Taekjoo’s line looping back: “You smell… off.”

The blond lurched upright. The room tilted; nausea snapped at his gut. He didn’t care. He yanked off last night’s clothes in a single mean strip, shouldered into the bathroom, and dumped the bundle into the washer without looking. Then he climbed into the tub and cranked the hot all the way until the showerhead coughed steam. Only scalding water and a lot of suds felt like they could even try to fix him.

His skin flushed fast—angry red blooming over shoulders, chest, throat—but he scrubbed harder. Coarser. Like he could peel off the top layer and leave whatever stink was underneath running down the drain. The cheap loofah rasped his skin, scoring faint pink tracks. Menthol shampoo burned his eyes; water rammed up his nose and into his ears; he snorted and blinked and kept going.

Over and over he ran the sponge: shoulders, chest, ribs, belly, hips, thighs, shins. Again. And again. Each pass he wrung the neon sponge like he meant to pulp it in his fist. Foam gathered thick and heavy, clumping on his forearms before slipping off in fat flakes that swirled at his ankles. The drain started to choke; a white, soapy cloud pooled around his feet.

The herbal body wash died with a wet gasp when he squeezed it—empty tube clattered to the enamel. He grabbed the next bottle—orange-scented—flipped the cap, squeezed half the damn gel into his palm, and lathered himself from scalp to heels.

He sniffed the back of his hand and got nothing.
Do I still stink? Do I not?
The phrase bored in like a worm in an apple, gnawing a tunnel through the meat of his thoughts: “Reeks. Reeks. Reeks.”

His jaw clenched. He squirted more body wash. The loofah slid and scraped; the water seared; none of it felt like enough. The grime felt welded deeper than skin, somewhere you couldn’t get at with a sponge or a scald. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t wash it off—not enough to feel clean around Taekjoo.

And then the next thought hit him sideways:
What if the dirt never washes off?

He froze, the dripping loofah crushed in his fist. The shower hammered the crown of his head, a brutal, brain-numbing hiss that left no space for words, and still a slow, stupid panic spread in his chest—vile in the exact same way as that syrupy trash in red cups at the crash pad.

Not the first—and not the last…

“But, fuck, I want this guy to be the last—so damn bad.”

Chapter Text

Zhenya drove with one hand and hummed along to the pop station, easy and off-key.

The day had come up stupidly well: he’d scored a Nissan Qashqai for practically nothing. Spry engine, original paint, straight from a careful grandpa who’d insisted the blond take him to a service bay—“check everything, son.” Like the seller was talking him into the purchase. The price was sweet, too: bottom of the market, a minor miracle these days. Pure sugar of a deal. The old man needed cash fast; the flip would be fat.

Paperwork done, they shook hands, and Zhenya steered the crossover toward his garage. He even hated this body type—his heart belonged to sedans—but a deal this good would’ve been stupid to pass up.

Inside, the cabin plastics had a pleasant spring to them; the ergonomics fell to the hand; the ground clearance was generous; and, as a bonus, there was a glass panoramic roof. At every red light he found himself staring up through it, getting lost in the sky. His fingers lazily drummed the wheel while the suspension smoothed the seams in the road.
Good car. And a good day.

At a long red light his gaze snagged on a familiar building on the embankment—the Oriental Faculty. He’d been here before—this was where Kirill had stiffed him on the Supra. And this was where he’d first seen Taekjoo.

Wonder how he’s doing now…

Impulse took the wheel. He clicked the right blinker and, with its cheerful tick-tick-tick, nosed in by the flowerbed—crooked, but with a perfect view of the entrance doors. His hand was already pulling out his phone, opening the app, and scrolling straight to the chat with the Korean. A green dot glowed by his name: online.

Their threads were a charming mess. The blond usually spammed him with car pics like “look at this beauty”, close-ups of auto parts, and short road clips. Taekjoo mostly sent Russian food pics with a short “what is this?” Zhenya’s mouth pulled into a dumb grin as he scrolled.

Two days ago the Korean had sent a photo of a massive white cat—round eyes, big whiskers, a ridiculous cloud of fur.

“Looks like you.” he’d written.
“he’s fat. i’m not fat”
“You’re big.”
And a smug little emoji.

Zhenya snorted and scrolled to today.
“Morning. Sleep well?”

He’d brushed it off with a perfunctory.
“yeah. all good”

Then a longer message:
“Hey—sorry about the weekend. I really am. I hope you weren’t too upset.
If everything works out today, I’ll have good news soon. Hope you’ll like it.”
Another sly cat-face at the end.

Zhenya stared at the screen. His fingertips rasped the ribbed plastic of the wheel. Intriguing. He typed:
“when does your class end?”

The reply came almost at once:
“I’m done. Out in 5.”
“What’s up?”

He set his hands on the wheel and dropped his chin on them, eyes glued to the main doors. He didn’t even know why he’d stopped. Didn’t know what to answer either. He just… wanted to. And the want ate logic for breakfast. He couldn’t take his eyes off the entrance.

Taekjoo did come out soon. Jacket with a high collar, beanie pulled low, cheeks flushed red from the cold. Two guys walked with him, talking animatedly. He nodded a little, hands buried in his pockets. Then he stopped, tugged the beanie off, and scratched his forehead with obvious relief; dark hair sprang up and he smoothed it a little awkwardly.

The blond watched him light up, watched the slow silver thread of smoke dissolve into the gray sky, watched the way his mouth shaped around the filter and how his eyes closed—just for that first drag—before lifting again with a quiet calm. Time clotted into his personal shot from a private film only he could see. Stupidly beautiful.

His classmates called, and Taekjoo headed toward the subway. Zhenya’s hand even started toward the horn, then he pulled it back. The Korean paused at a bin, tapped ash, and—passing a cluster of freshmen with vapes—tugged his collar up over his nose with a little grimace.

It felt like a punch under the ribs. In Zhenya’s head flashed the line—“You smell… off”—and a cold sweat ran down his spine with the sour taste of shame.

Christ, Zhenya, you’re such an asshole…

He didn’t bail on you that night. Even when you stank—reeked of that junkie den—he kissed you. He sat on that bench, freezing, smoking, and looking at you like he wasn’t about to run away. He probably understood everything. And stayed.
And you? You staged that… damn mescaline circus.

The blond exhaled, grinding his palms deeper into the wheel. Names spun in his head—who to block, who to mute, what to cut out of his life. He wasn’t sure it would work. He wasn’t sure he had the juice to live with the fallout.

But he knew one thing: if he fucked up with Taekjoo, he’d never forgive himself.

His phone buzzed in the pocket. Over the “What’s up?” bubbled a new message:
“Want to meet?”
And right after:
“Today.”

Zhenya swept his thumb across the screen, wiped his sweat-slick palms on his jeans, and typed:
“yeah”
Pause. Three dots itched.
“when should i swing by?”

Weeknight. Petersburg was slick and cold again from the gulf wind. Inside the BMW it was warm—smelled of coffee, rain, and something sugary. Taekjoo had been eating strawberry Korean cookies; the sweet scent still clung to his fingers. He talked animatedly, fidgeted in the seat, tugging at the shoulder belt like it was a nervous habit.

“Yesterday I tried to explain to a classmate that kimchi isn’t just a national dish but a kind of cultural metaphor,” he said, lifting a cup from the holder with both hands. “It’s about survival and patience. A long inner process—let’s call it a fermentation of the soul.” He took a careful sip.

The blond let a few seconds pass, weighing the words, then snorted softly without looking away from the road.
“Fermentation of the soul, huh? That’s a line. You actually told that?”

“I did,” Taekjoo answered with an easy, polite smile—no offense taken, just a little embarrassed. “I said Korean food is like Korean literature. Always a little about pain. But delicious anyway.”

“God…” Zhenya shook his head, cutting him a sideways glance, his voice going unexpectedly soft, almost gentle. “And how did this enlightened classmate of yours take that?”

“‘Eww, it’s rotten cabbage,’” he quoted flatly, pitching his voice into a high, girlish squeak for a second.

Zhenya barked a short laugh and slouched into the seatback. “Maybe she just has no taste. Or she’s an idiot.” A pause. “Listen…”

He turned the volume down and blew out a breath through his nose.
“About that night… I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to see it at all,” he said, hands tightening on the wheel as if he could crush the rim. “I wasn’t right. I fucked up—plain and simple. I’m not gonna start throwing promises around. I just need things between you and me to be okay. I’m trying. But I’m no prize—you know that.”

The corners of Taekjoo’s mouth twitched, amused at the rare, long string of words.
“If you haven’t noticed, I happen to like bad boys. One in particular. Very impulsive. Stubborn. A bit too hot-tempered for the Northern Capital.”[1]

“I’ll do better,” Zhenya snorted, as if accepting a compliment. “Started yesterday.”

“I can tell,” Taekjoo said, eyeing the tendons in Zhenya’s forearm as it worked the wheel. “You smell nice today. I like it.”

They went quiet for a moment: rain pattered on the roof, the wipers complained across the glass, the engine hummed steady and low. The car slowed to a red light. Zhenya turned toward him.

“Your turn. Confess. Why’d you want to drive around with me today? We usually… meet on Fridays.”

Taekjoo kept his eyes on the windshield, where the city floated in reflections—lamps glowing, wet cobblestones shining. He lifted his shoulders, watching headlights braid themselves into ribbons. “Just wanted to see you. Managed to sort some coursework out,” he murmured. His fingers kneaded the fabric over his knees. “Honestly, I didn’t have the strength to wait for Friday. And… I missed you.”

The blond fed in a touch more throttle than usual and glanced at the lovely, misleadingly innocent profile beside him. A thought sparked—bright, intrusive.

Then you could’ve come study at mine—what stopped you? I wouldn’t have laid a finger on you.
Okay, maybe I would’ve. But I’d have asked first, for fuck’s sake.

“You’re giving me that look again,” Taekjoo said, lifting a brow, sipping without taking the paper cup from his lips.

“I’m thinking it’s time to ask you on a proper date,” Zhenya said too fast, and didn’t take it back. “Candles. Or sushi. Grown-up stuff.”

“Candles are dangerous. You run hot.”

“Sushi, then.”

“And chopsticks? Can you handle them?”

“My hands work fine. You know that.”

“Let’s test that. Ask me,” he said, openly flirting now. “What’s stopping you?”

“I’m stalling because I love watching you get high off my driving.”

“That’s true,” Taekjoo admitted, his dark gaze sliding over the dash, then down to Zhenya’s fingers. “You do it… very sexually.”

It landed somewhere between a joke and a confession.

Right then Zhenya’s phone started vibrating in his pocket. He tried to ignore it.

Who the hell needs me now?!

It rang once, twice… On the third he snapped and answered. No caller ID.

“What?” he growled, dragging the phone to his ear. The last thing he wanted was to deal with anyone who wasn’t Taekjoo.

The voice on the line was familiar enough to freeze his blood. His heart dropped. His back prickled. Cold slid down his spine like a razor’s edge.

“Yevgeny, listen carefully.” Clipped. No room for reply. “You’re in their sights right now. This very minute. One tail on you, second in reserve, up north.”

Zhenya went rigid. Hands locked on the wheel, veins standing out. His pulse hammered in his temples.

A beat.

“They flagged you by the phone. By the hardware.”

“What fucking hardware?!” His voice cracked toward a shout.

Silence — then a long, tired exhale, as if the man on the other end was worn out by the futility of explaining.

“IMEI. Your work phone. They weren’t tracking you, they were tracking the person you were near. This time they’ve latched onto car thefts—just so you know.”

A second. Another.
Something old and ugly rose in Zhenya’s gut—buried, never gone: panic.

“Did someone on our side leak it?” His voice turned hoarse—anger, fear, and helplessness tangled together.

“I’ll explain later. For now—disappear. Fast. Wait till I call you,” the man said, taking another breath. “And for God’s sake, turn off everything.”

Click. Dead tone.

“Zhenya, what happened?” Taekjoo asked quietly, leaning closer.

No answer.
Zhenya snapped the blinker on, cut across two lanes. Tires screamed. Someone leaned on a horn; he didn’t even turn his head.

“Zhenya, please tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing,” too sharp, too fast. “It’s fine.”

A rough breath shuddered out of him.

“I’ve got to… take care of something. Life or death. Can you get home on your own?”

“But I—”

“Subway’s right there. Or ask someone,” he threw out, cutting across again and knifing into a turn.

“I don’t know where we are,” Taekjoo said, turning to the window. “And… it’s past midnight. I think the subway’s closed.” His hand tightened on the grab handle. “Answer me. Please.”

“Shut up,” Zhenya snapped. Not anger—desperation. He flinched at himself, jaw tightening, teeth catching the inside of his cheek. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that.”

“Zhenya, tell me—”

The blond flicked him a glance—sharp, fast—and saw the blood drained from Taekjoo’s face, his profile cut thin against the glass.

“I’m in deep shit, okay?! Up to my ears!” he burst out. “Someone burned me, someone’s tailing me. I don’t know who, don’t know from where, but—” He slammed the brakes, swerving to the curb. “Out. Now.”

A maniac behind them blared his horn, long and furious. Zhenya didn’t seem to hear. He turned to the Korean; his eyes had gone glassy.

“This is your chance to bail, Taekjoo. Get out and forget me like a bad dream. You don’t have to—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Zhenya jolted like he’d been slapped; his eyes went wide. Not the reply he expected.

“Are you really so out of your mind you think you can dump me on a curb at night in a city I barely know?” Taekjoo’s voice was quiet—and dangerous.

The blond froze. Looked at him. The other guy looked back—steady, calm. He left no space for argument and leaned closer.

“I’m staying,” he said slowly, like to a stubborn child. “Do you hear me? I’m staying with you. Even if you’re acting like a complete idiot.”

Silence. Rain drummed on the roof.
Zhenya let out a long breath. Inside, something shifted—a strange, clean click, like an equation finally solved when the missing variable fell into place. He unbuckled his belt, leaned over, found Taekjoo’s lips. A quick kiss. Almost like goodbye.

“Fine. If you’re staying — do exactly what I say. Got it?” The car lurched back into motion.

A shaky nod.

“Glovebox. There’s a phone. Hand it over. Yours too.”

Taekjoo popped the latch—and froze for a beat. On top lay a cheap, basic Android. Under the papers and junk, something else. He pushed the documents aside and touched the smooth black weight of a pistol. TT. Serious, heavy. His fingers crept forward; he swallowed thickly.

Zhenya’s eyes flicked sideways and took in the whole scene.

“Don’t. Don’t touch the gun, for fuck’s sake. The phones—both. Here.”

The Korean handed them over. Zhenya dropped the work phone onto his lap and swung the Bimmer toward the river.

“Where are we going?”

They merged back into the thick stream of traffic.

“The embankment.”

Wind off the gulf slapped the windshield; rain striped the glass. Zhenya braked hard by the stone lip of the embankment—almost nose-to—then yanked the handbrake up.

“Out,” he said—short, flat. He slammed the door and jerked his chin for Taekjoo to follow.

By the water it was twice as cold. Fine spray pricked their faces; shreds of damp fog blew in off the river. Here the lamps barely worked, and the Neva was a black, depthless pit. Salt ghosted Zhenya’s lips when he licked the rain away.

“Got a paperclip?” he asked, nodding at Taekjoo’s big hood.

“In the backpack.” He dug in the outer pocket, fingers red from the cold. The Korean found one and passed it over.

“Good.” One motion—Zhenya popped the SIM tray out of Taekjoo’s iPhone, pinched the card free, and snapped it in half. He watched the signal bars die in the top right of the screen. Zhenya was already on his “work” handset—SIM out, plastic crumbs at his feet. A short arm swing, a clean silver arc—plup—and the cheap phone vanished into the Neva.

“One down.”

“Zhenya…”

“Now yours.”

“Are you insane?” For the first time that night anger broke clean through Taekjoo’s politeness. “Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“Give it.” Zhenya said, stepping in, close enough to feel his breath. The weather shredded words to pieces, forced them nose-to-nose.

“It’s MY phone!”

“I know. Hand it over.”

“Don’t you dare, Zhenya!” He flinched back until his heels felt the very rim of the embankment. “How the hell am I supposed to call my mom?! It’s got… my photos. And my bank app.”

He stared up at him with a stubborn, wolfish set to his eyes, meeting the same hard stare in Zhenya’s blue ones. For a beat the blond thought he wouldn’t yield. Then Taekjoo’s mouth thinned: he muttered sharp curses in Korean, tore the case lid off with his teeth clenched, and slapped the phone into Zhenya’s palm.

“We’ll figure it out,” the blond said—and perfectly pitched it dead straight into the river. A quick bright parabola; a dull splash on the wind-chopped surface. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Make that two.” Taekjoo shook his head, still staring at the dark water. “You’re fucking deranged—if you still didn’t know.”

“You know what we say? ‘God loves a Trinity.’”[2] Zhenya pulled the last phone from his pocket, turned it in his fingers. His thumb found the unlock by muscle memory. A flicker of doubt—then survival won, and the phone followed the other two. “Come on.”

“That’s… brutal.”

“Yeah, not very Christian of me. Move.” He was already pivoting back toward the car. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I won’t,” Taekjoo shot back, but followed him. “For the record: that’s not how you do dates.”

“I’m a bad boy, remember?” Zhenya’s grin cut as he glanced back. “But alive.”

Far off, a siren wound up; its red-blue shimmer raked a restless pattern over the river.

Two doors thumped shut—a second—and the engine woke up. Zhenya killed the cabin light, flicked another switch—outside dropped to absolute dark. No headlights, no markers. A black shape on the wet black road.

“Haven’t seen a tail yet,” he murmured as the Bimmer ghosted out of the pull-off bay and slid along the granite. The dark bodywork dissolved into the rain. “Either my eyes are shit or they’re hiding well.”

No answer. The blond needed motion and risk the way other people needed air; without it, something would blow inside him. And he started the dangerous game: a car nearly invisible as it rejoined an unlit road.

“Let’s take a little drive,” he said. “We find the ones hunting us.” A glance at the passenger. “Taekjoo, it’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Don’t promise anything,” Taekjoo said, his mouth quirking into a smile that looked painfully like Zhenya’s own. “Just make me sure the only thing I regret tonight is a phone.”

They hit the same intersection for the third time and Zhenya let out a pleased breath.
“Got him.”

Old trick: a few loops around the blocks, a few light cycles. Cars line up at red on a half-empty road. The blond leaves half a car length ahead—room to dart.

“Far right lane. Goofy oval headlights. Tucked behind the white Audi—see it?”

Taekjoo leaned to the mirror, then nodded.
“I see him.” Rain misted the view, but his dark eyes tracked the car without blinking. “Thought I was imagining it. He really is following us.”

“Tonight, coincidences aren’t accidents.” Zhenya’s smile turned mean. “Check your belt. Hold tight. Fun starts now.”

Green. He fed in throttle—hard. The Bimmer leapt forward. A quick twist of the wheel—tire screech, a short, slippery yaw over the wet. The DSC[3] light stuttered yellow twice and went dark again. The car behind didn’t drop; it held distance, hiding in other taillights.

The streets narrowed; shop windows jittered in the side glass, streetlamps rippled. They knifed ahead, throwing fans of dirty water out of puddles. Zhenya hooked them into a thin alley. Two hundred meters—dead end to a wall. He nosed to the yard and killed the exterior lights again—darkness dropped like a curtain. After a couple of long, grinding minutes, he clicked the selector again and eased them backward under an archway, their echo ringing around a sleeping courtyard.

Parking sensors shrieked—they were driving by feel. Thirty seconds of held breath. The cabin air felt thick, hot with a metallic tang. Click to D, and Bimmer slid forward. In the mirrors, through the rain, the same oval pair was born again, latched onto them like a barb.

“Sticky little bastard,” Zhenya hissed, and punched out into back lanes, slipping through gateways and yards, threading between playgrounds and dumpsters. He drove by memory, flying like a madman over slick asphalt. At some point the city opened up for him: the knot of routes became arteries, veins, capillaries—and he was the blood moving through his own system.

On a relatively straight stretch, he cut a quick look at Taekjoo. The kid was braced well: left hand on the belt, right on the grab handle, fingers pale.

Zhenya squeezed his thigh once—a steadying touch—and nodded at the glovebox.
“Taekjoo… take the gun.”

He flipped the lid, reached sideways, and took it. Careful, not clumsy. He wrapped the grip, felt the weight of the steel.

“It’s… really old. Back home you see these in movies, or behind museum glass.”

“Ever actually held one?” Zhenya clicked the wipers up a notch; weather was going to hell. He shot a fast glance at the Korean, then back to the mirrors.

“I served in the army. I’ve shot. Not this model, but I know the basics.”

“Good. Don’t play hero. If they try to pin us, you drop down and stay down. Keep it hidden, but don’t drop it.”

Taekjoo slid the TT at his waistband and pulled the hoodie over it.

“Do all Russians keep guns in their cars?” he asked, dead serious.

“I only speak for myself. But I’m not the only one. Technically you need a license,” Zhenya said, half a grin.

“Is Saint Petersburg… truly that dangerous?”

“Petersburg’s the mafia capital. Don’t confuse it with the museum capital.”[4]

Ahead, the road dipped under a bridge. Asphalt fell into a black tub, water boiling under the downpour. The wipers barely kept up.
On the left a Chevrolet Aveo sat with its hazard lights on. Water reached to its wheel hubs, hood thrown open. A man in a raincoat fussed ahead of it, helpless.

“There’s water,” Taekjoo said evenly.

“I know. Perfect weather for a fucking awesome swim.” Zhenya set the selector and held steady revs with his foot. “The right edge rides higher here. Tuck your feet up.”

He almost stopped, then bled speed down to a crawl and took it to the right—skimming to the shallows. Left wheels in the water, right wheels almost kissing the curb. The body of Bimmer tire nearly scraping the granite. Throttle: smooth, no jabs. The bow wave curled off the nose of the BMW's hood and back itself at the Chevy—its mass shielded them from the worst of the surge.

“You weren’t joking about swim?” Taekjoo pressed into the seatback, feet already up on the leather. “If we don’t drown, I’m the first to get you certified insane,” he muttered, not loosening his grip on the belt.

“I’ll co-sign,” Zhenya said, bright and feral.

The Bimmer shoved into the dark soup. Its shark nose raised a rolling chop. Water thudded the sills in dull blows. Damp river smell snuck into the cabin; a cold bead ran down the inside door seal.

“Swim, my princess, swim.” the blond said through his teeth, both hands locked on the wheel.

A fan of black water slapped the windshield. For a second—nothing but roar. The parking sensors’ hysterical squeal. The shell of the car shivered, but like a heavy big fish the BMW forced through. For a heartbeat the body was skidding; then the tires grabbed the ledge by the curb, clawed up, and they burst onto higher, drier ground, and under the hood the engine fan coughed like a steam train.

Good thing I wasn’t an idiot who cut the coils[5]. With a lowered ride height we’d be bobbing there with that poor bastard, hydrolocked to hell.

Behind, the pursuer’s oval headlights showed—then followed. Too late. He braked, hesitated, shoved in—and choked on by his own wave. The beams bucked, swallowed by water. Headlights wobbled, smothered under water. In the rearview, the Aveo’s lonely hazards were joined by a second, panicked set blinking.

Zhenya shot up out from under the bridge, clipped the corner, slipped into a yard through a narrow pedestrian cut, and squeezed toward an arch—bare inches between the concrete bollards and the door skins. The tail wouldn’t make it: too narrow, and his radiator had already swallowed a mouthful.

He allowed himself one quick look at Taekjoo. So alive. Pissed off. Eyes shining.

“Was it fun? You liked it?” His voice came out a little rough.

“That was insanely not normal,” Taekjoo said—and then, late, exhaled. “But yes—fun.”

His hand tightened on the chest strap. He looked at the blond and, maybe for the first time, didn’t see a racer or a cocky grin under a hood—he saw a wild animal cornered that still moved fast and sure. And as long as Zhenya had the wheel, they’d be all right. He’d promised.

Chapter Text

By deep night the cold rain had turned to wet snow, smothering tire tracks on the dirt lane. Zhenya eased off the throttle and needled the Bimmer into a black slit of an alley, feathering the brakes by a row of derelict garages. Not a single light anywhere. The corrugated-iron boxes looked so mean it was hard to believe this was still within city limits, though the address checked out.

Up to this point the blond had been zigzagging across the city and its edges, jerking the second tail back and forth on a string. He’d run lit—headlights and running lights blazing—then, with a hard snap, kill everything, spooking random drivers when the shark-nosed BMW slid out of the dark. First they shot through two interchanges, then dived down a one-way, then went back to looping the district, changing line and tempo again and again.

After that kind of show, the “northern” car’s headlights winked out about fifteen minutes later. Even so, Zhenya kept circling another hour or so down grim, unpaved streets—belt-and-suspenders, for his own peace of mind.

“Out. Stand by me,” he told Taekjoo, bringing the car to a halt by a sketchy-looking unit.

The Korean climbed from the warm cabin—wet needles of snow stung his cheeks at once. Slush sucked at his sneakers. The blond crouched at the gate, pulling a slim, flat key and a little magnet from his pocket. He touched the magnet to the keyway to defeat the blocker, then slid the key in.
A click. The lock flinched.

“Move the bottom edge,” he said without looking back. “If you see light—dive in the car and don’t make a sound.”

The door leaf moved grudgingly, grating low and dull. Inside—pure, breathless dark and the sour smell of age. Zhenya was already stepping in, painting a narrow stripe of light ahead with a finger-sized torch. The beam tore three shapes out of the black: a mangy Renault, a prehistoric Audi, and an Opel Astra[1]—dirt-matted, plates scuffed and tired.

“Idiot,” the blond breathed—at whom, exactly, left unspecified. He pushed the key he’d fished from the door seam into the driver’s lock. The alarm went off instantly, howling like a banshee.

“Son of a—” He sprinted for the nose.

The hood let go on the first jerk. He ripped the negative lead off the battery—howl strangled but didn’t die.

“Of course,” he growled, diving into the cabin from the passenger side. Fingers yanked the lower trim off the dash—webs, dust, other crap. Zhenya plucked two fuses from the block almost by feel.

A beat—and blessed silence.
The siren cut mid-wail, like it had just recognized Zhenya as its rightful owner. He slid back out, wiped his forehead on his sleeve, and dropped into a crouch. The air was knife-cold, but his back was already wet.

“This is just the warm-up,” he muttered. “Who installed this squealing garbage?”

“That was… very professional,” Taekjoo said softly from the doorway. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Life,” Zhenya smirked, standing and turning. “You freezing? Go sit in the Bimmer—the heater’s working. And clear our stuff while you’re there. Trash bags are in the glovebox. Sweep everything into them—floor, seats, center armrest, all of it.”

A silent nod—and the Korean vanished into the wash of headlights.

The blond lifted the Opel’s hood. It would take some screwing around before it moved under its own power. Judging by how fast the wail had sagged, the battery[2] was more dead than alive. He fetched a set of jumper leads with alligator clips[3] from the BMW’s trunk and hustled between cars, wincing at the weather.

After a while on charge, a relay[4] clicked; the dash lamps flared; the fan screamed awake. Turn of the key—the Astra’s engine shuddered, coughed, and settled into a rough idle.

“Still alive, you bastard,” Zhenya exhaled. “Still alive.”

Snowfall thickened—heavy, wet, gluing itself to everything—and buried the BMW’s windshield in a minute-made drift.

“All done,” Taekjoo said behind him. He held up a black trash bag, nearly full. “Moved everything over,” he added evenly. “Didn’t forget the gun.”

“Good,” the blond muttered, scrubbing hands on his jeans as he came closer. “Now we clean up where we left a trace.”

“Left a trace?” the kid repeated slowly, wiping wet snow off his cheekbone with his free hand.

Zhenya nodded and hauled from the BMW’s trunk a bottle of isopropyl, rags, nitrile gloves. He handed Taekjoo a pair.

“Wipe wherever fingers went—handles, armrests, shifter, visors, the hatch glass. Especially the back seat. We kinda… you know—” He didn’t finish, just cut the air with a hand.

Taekjoo snorted.
“Like a spy movie.”

“Close. No budget, real prison time.”

They worked without talking. Isopropyl bit their noses; even through latex their fingers went numb from the cold. Taekjoo moved methodically over leather and plastic. Zhenya scrubbed the cluster and door cards. Now and then their eyes met and then fell back to the job.

“That’s as good as we’ll get,” Zhenya said at last, dropping a rag and straightening. “This won’t pull, uh, bodily fluids out of the rear bench, but we tried. Let’s roll.”

He peeled the gloves, stuffed them in his pocket, and crouched by the BMW’s plate frame. A thumb to the long lower strip—plastic sprang; the plate slid free. A minute later both tags were tucked under the Opel’s driver’s seat. Wet snow had soaked his hood and shoulders, turning the jacket heavy.

“Help me with the gate when I pull in,” he told the Korean, hopping into the warm cabin.

Zhenya swapped the cars with a couple of neat moves. The BMW, tires whispering, tucked itself between the Renault and the Audi. Together they tugged a tarp over her and cinched the cords by the wheels.

“Hang in, princess,” the blond said under his breath, smoothing a hand over the shapeless cover where the hood would be. “I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

The lock clacked loud; the door fell into place; the magnet set the block again. Outside—nothing but quiet and the wet suck of churned slush.

Zhenya stopped by the Opel and fished out a cigarette. His hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t get a light to take—nerves or the wind, who knew. Taekjoo stepped in close, cupped the cigarette with his palm, and thumbed his own lighter: a clean flame caught paper, and the blond drew a warm menthol lungful with plain relief.

They traded a look that said more than either of them could have put into words.
Time to move.

The Astra crawled into the dark, tires whispering over wet snow to the rhythm of the wipers. The windows filmed over; the cabin smelled of damp cloth and plain old exhaustion.

Taekjoo hunched deeper into his wet hoodie and jacket, head tipped back against the seat. At first he watched the road, shoulders rounded, swiping a sleeve over the window now and then. Then his chin began to dip—fatigue taking what it was owed. Within minutes he was asleep, head slumped to the side. A small shiver ran through him.

Zhenya was frozen too—shoulders soaked through, meltwater from his hood tracking down his spine, cheeks burning from the wind. He caught himself still listening into the dark outside—straining for engines behind them, for any familiar, nauseating pattern of headlights in the mirrors. His palms were sticky now not from snow but from fear—quieter, not gone. Maybe the pursuer had fallen off. The bad taste in his mouth hadn’t.

He kept thinking about Taekjoo—how to explain any of this in a way that made sense, and what they were supposed to do next.

At the entrance to the old garage cooperative, the night watchman sleepily waved and cranked the barrier aside. The blond nodded back and, on reflex, checked the rearview again.

Nothing.

Two minutes later the Opel rolled to a stop by a squat two-story stone box jammed between a pair of abandoned garages.
The illegal garage apartment. A spare hide. He’d lucked to get it after one deal: the owner moved to Kaliningrad and left the keys in as part of the payment for a car.

Zhenya stepped out into the night, swung the iron doors wide, and felt along the wall for the breaker panel. Clicks, a low electrical hum, and a wash of warm yellow light pushed the dark back. Dust and metal in the air. He nosed the Opel into the bay and killed the engine—the quiet rang in his ears.

He locked the doors hard, checked the bolts—twice. Then he took the narrow stairs up to the “living” part without wasting seconds.

The loft met him with a hollow echo and a draft. Up here: a bedroom and a bath. An ordinary IKEA bed with metal frame stood in the middle under a loud patterned quilt; a wardrobe squatted in the corner with one lonely chair beside it. Bare-bones, but livable. A paper map of Saint Petersburg was thumb-tacked to the wall, one corner folded; a couple of pushpins stuck in it. Next to it, a translucent door led to the bathroom: a shower stall and a small water heater. Zhenya tested the bed—sheets were dry. Good. No damp. In the bath he opened the tap—pipes moaned, coughed out air, spat in fits, then steadied to a smooth clear stream.

He plugged the boiler in and waited for it to thrum, then scrubbed a hand over the back of his head. His hair was clumped with sweat and half-melted snow. The rush and labor had warmed him a notch, but a thin wire of cold anxiety still cinched his chest.

Who sold me out?

He leaned a shoulder to the wall.

The auto thefts. Had to be one of ours. Someone who knew the chain—how the cars moved and vanished out of the city.

He swallowed. Couldn’t get a full breath—tight, like the edge of hyperventilating.

Fuck. I got almost caught—but slipped out. For now. And dragged Taekjoo into this shit with me. Nice work, Zhenya… You promised things would be okay between you two… Sure. Bullshitter.

He pressed his palms over his eyes. Thoughts tripped over each other.

Need SIMs. New phones. Lay low a day, two. Then handle business. Main thing—don’t get burned on something stupid.

He pushed off the wall and, on his way out, flicked the AC to heat.

Downstairs, to the right of the car lift and the tool rack, a kitchen the size of a joke hid in the wall: a tiny table and an old yellowed kettle. The blond dropped a couple of stale candies into his mouth, filled the kettle, set it to boil, and went back to the car.

The passenger door creaked open. He dropped into a crouch.

Taekjoo was asleep. Jacket slipped off his shoulders, lips parted a fraction, hair a soft mess. Lashes cast faint shadows; that crease between his brows stayed—stubborn even in sleep. The blond went still, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. After the insane run through the night city, the plain fact of him being here felt… unbelievable.

His gaze lingered on the face; he leaned in. A warm, quick kiss—careful, stolen.

“Hey,” he whispered. “We’re here.”

The Korean blinked, rolled his shoulders. Sleepy, not scared.

“Where are we?”

“Safe place,” Zhenya breathed, thumb grazing his cheek—gentler than he meant to. “Come on. Let’s get you warm.”

He held a hand out. The Korean stood, grabbed his backpack, and for a second leaned his shoulder into him. His body was ice cold. The answering ache under Zhenya’s ribs was sharp and mean.

“It’s… cozy,” Taekjoo said, looking around. “In its own way.”

“Yeah. It’ll do,” the blond nodded. “Dry clothes upstairs in the wardrobe. You shower first, then me.”

The kid headed for the stairs but stopped on the very first step, fingers tightening on the rail.
“I have classes in the morning. I need to be on campus.”

The blond blew a breath out hard and scrubbed his wet hands over his face.
“You’ll skip. Tell them you’re sick.”

“I’ve never skipped,” Taekjoo said, quiet but insistent.

“And now you will,” Zhenya said again, pressure under the words.

The Korean went taut. His eyes narrowed; his voice hardened.
“I decide what I do. ”

Silence stretched. The blond hissed air between his teeth and looked straight at him—wired, ready to bolt.

“Not happening,” he said at last. “Until I figure out what’s going on, we don’t step out. That’s a safety issue.”

“I’ve never—”

“I’ll take you after to uni after,” the blond cut in. “Promise.”

Taekjoo studied him for a long beat. He didn’t ask for apologies, didn’t pry. He only half-squinted and let the breath go out—with a kind of bone-deep weariness in the sound.
“I did pick a bad boy myself, huh?”

“Something like that,” the blond said, a humorless half-smile.

“Fine. This time I’m staying too, Zhenya. But if you dragged me in—don’t yank the leash.” His tone stayed even, but the knuckles on the rail had gone white.

Zhenya looked at him—almost disbelieving—caught the profile clean: certain, frowning. He nodded slowly, something like a humbled apology flickering in his eyes.

“Thanks. And, Taekjoo… it’s not an order. I’m asking.”

“Yeah,” The Korean muttered, starting up the stairs. “I got you, Zhenya. Heard. Loud and clear.”

Zhenya woke to a strange weight over his head. He tried to lower a numb arm—the metal kissed the iron headboard with a bright clink. His blue eyes snapped open. The last traces of sleep were gone, erased without mercy.

“What the fuck…” he breathed, head thudding back.

A thin cold band of metal—a cuff—bit around his left wrist, the skin reddened where it had rubbed. The right hand was free.

At the foot of the bed, cross-legged, sat Taekjoo—in Zhenya’s white T-shirt, hair damp from the shower, bare legs folded under him. Keys in his palm. Heavy eyes. He tossed the bunch up, caught it in a fist. Tossed again. Caught.
Tink—tink.

“We need a serious talk, Evgeny,” he said, voice level. “Pretending everything’s fine after tonight is a luxury we can’t afford.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You cuffed me to talk?” Zhenya jerked his wrist; the short chain gave an ugly rattle, bright and mean. “Hell of a good morning. Boundaries, Taekjoo. Ever heard of them?”

Outside, the snow thickened, drumming against the tin roof.

“You owe me answers. I’m not letting you go until I get them. Try the cute little sarcasm routine again—and you’re parked here till morning.”

“Jesus, that’s a fucked-up plan, Taek.” The bracelet bit into the blond’s pale skin. “Unlock me. The nice way.”

“The nice way you already fucked up,” Taekjoo leaned forward a fraction; his tone stayed quiet, almost gentle, his eyes ice-cold. “Now it’s my way.”

Zhenya yanked again, a low snarl in his throat. The links jangled.
“Fuck off with this kinky bullshit…”

“I’m done not knowing. I want straight answers. Let’s start simple: who are you?”

“Guy who really wants to punch you right now.”

Taekjoo sighed, shifted up, and sat on Zhenya’s thighs, knees wide, looking down.
“Try it. You’ve got one hand free.”

“One more word and you’ll regret it,” the blond growled through his teeth. The chain went taut again.

“You don’t understand your position, Evgeny,” the Korean said, sliding back below Zhenya’s knees—out of the arc of any swing. “Who are you really? What do you do? What happened tonight? Normal answers.”

The blond tried to buck him off.
“Maybe you need my house keys too?” He was breathless from the scramble. “Where’d you even get the cuffs, student?”

“Threw them in my backpack once to… play around. Back when we first—” He paused, eyes dropping, picking the words carefully. “Started dating. Wanted to make it spicier. Didn’t think I’d actually need them.”

His glance dropped—to the tense muscles in Zhenya’s thighs, to his own hand fisting the sheet.
“Looks like I did.”

Zhenya narrowed his eyes in silence, waiting for him to continue.

“Since we’re this close,” Taekjoo went on evenly, “be honest with me. Who are you, Zhenya? What do you really do?”

“Uncuff me.” Another rough tug. Skin reddened under steel; the cuff gave a curt tick against the headboard.

“No.” There was metal in Taekjoo’s voice, colder than what bit Zhenya’s wrist. “You either talk, or you lie here till morning. I’ll keep asking till you’re done with the silent act. I’ve got top marks in patience.”

He shifted his weight to make it uncomfortable—designed to knock Zhenya’s cool out of him.
“The questions aren’t hard. Just answer—and stop pretending it smells like pine forest when you’re neck-deep in shit.”

“Go to hell, you blackmailing fuck.” He heaved again. “Take it off. We’ll talk on my terms.”

“No, fuck that, I know your terms. I’ve had enough of your smug smirks. You’re going to use words with your mouth because I’m starting to lose my calm. Or I go downstairs, kill the lights, lock the door, and leave you here to yell your head off. Your call.”

Taekjoo dangled the keys in front of his face—they chimed thinly against each other, dancing on the ring. The blond lunged, but the bunch vanished fast—the Korean tossed it onto a chair.
“See? Keys are right there. But as long as you lie or stay silent, you don’t get them.”

“What do you want to hear?” the blond snapped, temper breaking. “That I steal cars? Yeah, I fucking do. That someone in our crew sold us out? They did. That we’re probably wanted now? Most likely,” he hissed through his teeth.

“That kind of thing earns you prison time,” Taekjoo said quietly, eyes darkening.

The blond twisted a corner of his mouth into a crooked smile.
“What, forget I’m your bad boy? Thought I went to church on Sundays? I do what I’m good at. It pays.”

“And it gets cops hunting you.” The steel crept back into Taekjoo’s tone. “So why drag me along, if it’s so dangerous?”

“Because I didn’t want to leave you, alright?” Zhenya barked, his voice rising. “Because my brain fucking short-circuited. Because you sat in the car and said, ‘I’m staying.’ You’re next to me and it blasts the top off my skull.”

Taekjoo frowned.
“That’s all?” His voice didn’t waver. “I got into your car, joined a chase with a gun, you threw my phone in a river… I’m risking my visa, my studies, my whole damn life here. Stakes are high, Evgeny. I have a right to know who I am to you. What you feel for me. What you plan to do next.”

Zhenya was quiet a long time, turned his face away.
“I’ve got nothing to say yet.”

Taekjoo bit his own lip, nerves snapping.
“Fucking brilliant,” he said dryly after a beat. “Explains a lot. Don’t want to talk about us? Then at least say something. Be honest for once.”

The blond dragged himself upright as far as the chain let him, shoulders tense.
“What do you want—why I even started stealing cars? Because there was fuck-all else. No one who actually needed me. So I got in. Nothing to lose. And the money came easy.” He didn’t look at him. “I’ve always been the guy people use. First the grown-ups, then the so-called friends, clients. Convenient—as long as I’m useful. Everybody wants something—cash, a car, a favor, a ride, cover, a drinking buddy. I’m convenient to everyone. Everyone but myself.”

“Where the hell did you even pick up that whole ‘no one needs me’ routine?” Taekjoo pressed. “Who started that carousel—your family?”

“Hah. Family.” The blond snorted. “My father—he thinks I’m… just a mistake. My mother’s dead. My brothers remember me when they need money. Or to text on holidays. That’s it.”

Taekjoo gave a crooked smile.
“Got it. Everything’s shit on all fronts—and that’s your indulgence. Convenient, I’ll give you that.”

“Listen, what about you?” The blond cut in, voice rougher now. “Since we’re spilling life stories—where’d you learn to spread your legs like that? Some elective at Seoul U? ‘Erotics and Diplomacy’ program? Or just born gifted?”

The Korean froze like from a blow to the solar plexus.

Zhenya gave a dry, mean half-smile, eyes locked on him.
“What, cat got your tongue? Embarrassed now? Come on, you’ve got stories too. Go on—be bold.”

The sound landed sharp and clean.
The slap wasn’t hard—but damn, it was precise. Heat flashed in Zhenya’s cheek. Blood started on his lip, and his head tilted. Both of them froze a half-beat. Taekjoo’s palm burned. Zhenya didn’t move.

The Korean trembled slightly, his hands curling into fists. His voice almost cracked.
“Would’ve been better if my father thought I was a mistake. Then maybe he wouldn’t have whored me out to his buddies when he couldn’t pay his debts.”

Silence.

The dark eyes that met Zhenya’s were knife-cold.
“For all your bullshit tough talk, you’re terrified to admit what you actually want. So scared you’d rather cheapen me or humiliate me.” He bent closer, studying the face he’d just hit. “If you can’t say it, I’ll say it for you.”

Zhenya didn’t breathe. He wanted to speak—but only swallowed, throat jumping, Adam’s apple twitching hard.

“You think you’re the only one who’s had it rough? That you’re alone in this? You shut up when you needed to talk—and once you started, you just dumped your head’s shit on me. Feel better now?”

He stood abruptly, grabbed Zhenya’s cigarettes off the nightstand.
“So here I am—the ‘pretty face’ you fell for at the bar,” he tossed over his shoulder, pulling on his hoodie and stepping into his jeans.

“Taek, I…” Zhenya’s voice cracked. “I honestly don’t know how to be with someone for real.”

That stopped him. But he didn’t turn.
Beat.

“And in the car, then…” Taekjoo’s voice came quieter. “Was that all a lie too? Even the part about a date?” He exhaled, short and sharp. “Let’s not play dumb—I know you fell for me. Hard. The question is whether you’ve got the guts to say it out loud. Or do we keep fucking in silence like that’s the deal? I didn’t stay for that, Zhenya. I’m not here to be your fuck-buddy. Fuck-buddies don’t get their phones thrown into a river without a word.”

He turned toward the stairs, one hand gripping the rail. A shadow stretched across the steps. He froze. Then turned back. Stopped by the head of the bed—close enough that Zhenya had to look up.

“Evgeny. Last time I’m asking. What do you want from me right now? Not ‘on Fridays.’ Right now.”

Zhenya’s mouth tugged sideways; his eyes slid off.
“You want the truth? Start with yourself. Right now this is an interrogation. I have to answer, and you stand there counting confessions?”

Taekjoo nodded once—sharp, decisive, like marking a verdict.
“Fine. I’ll start. Listen carefully. I want to be with you. Not in episodes, not ‘on Fridays.’ That’s why I stayed. That’s why I’m here. I made my choice.”

He leaned down until their eyes were level, pressing Zhenya’s free hand into the mattress with his palm. His fingers trembled; the skin was hot and dry, a pulse beating under his touch.

“And you?”

Zhenya frowned, drew a breath that sounded like it hurt.
“I…” His voice came rough, cracked. “Yeah, I… Shit. I—”

Taekjoo’s face tightened, disappointment raw and sharp.
“Zhenya, I’m so fucking furious with you right now. You have no idea.”

He bent lower—too close now. The air between them thickened, heavy and hot, tasting like metal and skin. Somewhere between their hands, the ghost of a spark, a tiny static snap, jumped fingertip to fingertip.

Zhenya’s cheek burned. A thin line of blood bloomed across his lip. He licked it off without thinking, the tip of his tongue catching on the split—little sting, quick salt. Taekjoo froze, watching the red on that mouth and how it vanished. His pulse throbbed in his temples; heat coiled low and mean; his jeans suddenly felt too tight.

The sight of Zhenya—chained, furious, but not resisting—sent a flare of want through him. Sharp. Borderline painful.

He’d almost left. And now he was still here, breathing hard; he watched, greedy, for the rise and fall of Zhenya’s chest. The Korean trusted his body more than anybody’s words.

He put a knee on the edge of the mattress. The old springs gave a small, complaining squeak under his weight. He caught Zhenya’s free wrist, gripped harder, drew it up; muscle tightened, shoulder flexed. Zhenya’s breath shortened—rough exhales skimming Taekjoo’s skin, Adam’s apple kicking. Pupils blown wide. Time hesitated.

From those plush lips came a line born of anger and want:
“Fine. I’ll talk to the one that doesn’t lie. The one that’s always honest. Your body.”

He didn’t wait for permission. His palm dropped heavy between Zhenya’s legs, gripping through the thin cotton. The blond’s hips twitched; the chain above his head gave a bright clink and a brief rattle. Taekjoo pressed again, fingers digging in like testing the tension of a spring, then squeezing once more. Zhenya exhaled through clenched teeth, a low, muffled curse. His hips lifted, hungry for friction.

“Fuck—this is blackmail,” Zhenya hissed, voice breaking, heat already rising up his throat.

“It’s the only thing you respond to,” Taekjoo bit back. His voice stayed low, calm—something predatory glinting under it.

He tore off his hastily pulled-on jeans and came back onto the mattress, straddling him. Knees planted on either side of Zhenya’s hips. Then he moved—slow, torturous pressure, grinding down in a maddening rhythm.

Cloth on cloth. Fire where they met. Bodies pressed tight, movement measured to torture. Too close, too deliberate. It scrambled both their heads.

“Start talking, Evgeny,” he breathed, mouth close enough to touch. “I want to hear you say it. Say it yourself. Come on. Are you in love with me?”

No answer. Just a jagged inhale—and a hard snap upward of the hips.

Taekjoo rocked back, hooked his fingers in the waistband, and tugged Zhenya’s lounge pants down—they stretched, clung, then slid off—baring flushed skin and an erection hard enough to ache.
Nothing between them now.

He shifted, weight pressing down. Zhenya’s cock slid up between Taekjoo’s thighs—right there, heavy and hot, caught tight between his ass cheeks, so close to the entrance it made his breath hitch.

The blond curled his toes, heels digging into the sheets, writhing with impatience. Taekjoo kept him on edge.
The chain rattled again—a short, hard jingle in the silence.

“Say it,” Taekjoo demanded, holding his gaze. His fingers wrapped around Zhenya’s cock and began to stroke—slow, willfully wrong, teasing by design. A lazy, frustrating rhythm. He wasn’t touching to please. He was tormenting him. Punishing him.

The blond shut his eyes, then snapped them open.
“This is straight-up fucking blackmail, Taek—”

“Yeah. And?”

His cock dragged slick between Taekjoo’s cheeks, the head twitching with need. Zhenya could feel it—the twitch of his hole, pulsing like it was waiting. Taekjoo felt it too—and trembled. A short moan slipped from his throat, raw and breathy.

He leaned forward, widening his knees, hands dragging up his own chest through the shirt. His nipples—tight and aching—showed through the cotton. His whole body was taut like a drawn bow, from spine to fingers. His toes curled under, tension coiled deep in his belly—heat swelling, thick and maddening.

He brushed a thumb across Zhenya’s swollen mouth from the earlier slap—and, without permission, pushed two fingers between his lips.
“Suck,” he rasped, and the sound of his voice was nearly unrecognizable.

For a few seconds the blond resisted. Then his mouth opened. His tongue curled around the knuckles, drawing them in deeper. He licked like he was starving for it—desperate for anything. A flush climbed his cheekbones. In those blue eyes was everything: want, fury, plea.

Spit slicked Taekjoo’s fingers, dripped to his palm, his chin. Zhenya’s breathing staggered, chest shivering with each pull of air.

The Korean drew his hand back—wet, shining—and, without breaking eye contact, guided that damp heat where he needed it—down, lower, past the waist, over the base of his cock, between his legs. Right where it hurt from want.

Their eyes locked and then, without warning, he turned around. Taekjoo propped himself on his knees and started to stretch himself: a little clumsy, blindly, each breath breaking into a shaky, rough grunt. The muscles in his lower abdomen trembled with tension—it hurt without lube, but he accepted the pain as necessary. He didn’t stop.

His shirt hung damp and wrinkled off his shoulders, clinging to the sweat that slicked down his spine. The heat underneath was thick, sticky, relentless.

He leaned forward hard, braced like a rider—only reversed; his chest almost touched his own thighs. The position wasn’t kind, but stubbornness kept him there, holding Zhenya on the knife-edge between too much and not enough. Behind him, the chain chattered—small, plaintive protest of metal.

The blond reached with his free hand, fist tightening. His stare dragged over the line of Taekjoo’s curved back; the shirt got in the way. He shoved the fabric higher, dragging it off wet skin, his palm landing high on a hip, pressing to the taut swell. It twitched under his touch.

A flinch. The Korean froze, weighing whether to swat the hand off. Whether to let him. He cut a look back over his shoulder.
“Don’t touch,” he said, flat and dangerous. “You’re not in charge here.”

The blond went still. His hand stayed where it landed—hot, hungry, fingers curving into flesh. He felt the muscles tremble beneath the skin, and the heat that rose from Taekjoo’s body spilled back over his own belly in slow, electric waves.

Taekjoo lifted slightly, knees spreading for balance. A sharp, ragged breath escaped as he guided his own fingers lower. One slipped in—then another. The motion was strained, deliberate. His breathing stumbled. His free hand lost its place, scrabbling for the crumpled sheet, gripping it white-knuckled. He fucked himself slowly, blindly—right there in front of Zhenya—with broken little gasps at every push. His fingers slipped out, pushed back in. Sweat beaded along his throat and turned it sleek.

Zhenya pressed deeper into the pillow, biting his lip. The cut reopened with a sting. Taekjoo’s mouth had fallen open now. The blond could hear every inhale, every ragged exhale, every stifled moan.

And then it hit him—the ease of it, too smooth. He must’ve prepared himself beforehand.

When?
This morning?
In the shower?..

“Christ…” Zhenya breathed, almost against his will. Whatever composure he had left burned clean away.

The Korean folded forward, spine bending into a hard arc. His rhythm picked up—barely—but enough to blur the line between ache and pleasure until it thinned to nothing. His hips lifted and dropped, unsure and steady at once—the same stubborn grit Zhenya already knew too well.

“Taekjoo…” Zhenya rasped, not trusting his eyes.

The room’s air went heavy and spoon-thick. Sweat, skin, want—warm and a little salty at the back of the tongue.

He didn’t answer. He just breathed, louder now, uneven—and then choked out a rough, guttural moan when he pressed deeper than before.

“Talk, or you don’t get the best part,” he forced out. It felt like he was punishing Zhenya. It felt even more like he was punishing himself.

He turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder. His gaze was fogged, near feverish.
“Don’t make me wait. I can give you what you want… right now.”

His fingers slipped free. He shifted back, inching closer to Zhenya. His hand reached behind, guiding the heat of Zhenya’s cock to his entrance. As the swollen head pressed against him, he exhaled sharply through clenched teeth.
“F…fuck.”

The very slick tip began to push inside, the tight ring of muscle opening only an inch at a time. Taekjoo shuddered. It burned, stretched, tore him open—but he didn’t stop. He sank lower, a low groan rumbling in his chest as a tremor ran through his thighs. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His toes curled into the rucked sheet.

Above, the chain jingled in rhythm—Zhenya pushing up to meet him. Breathing became a struggle, the air too warm, too thick, syrupy. He was leaking, the head pulsing, sliding deeper with wet resistance that gave way too slowly. It was burning.
Too hot. Way too hot.

Taekjoo kept moving—slow, measured, pressing through inch by inch, taking more. The pain and scorch of friction stole his breath. Zhenya broke first. There was no plea in him—only a rough, cutting order.

“Take the damn shirt off. Now,” he growled, licking his mouth like he was starved. “And stop pretending you don’t like this.”

Taekjoo flicked another look over his shoulder—half challenge, half something else. Submission? Provocation? Play?
Maybe all of it.

He didn’t say a word—just dragged the hem up. Skin showed slowly: the plane of his abdomen, tight muscle, rib-lines under thin skin, the throat pulled taut. His hair fell across his eyes.

The shirt hit the floor.

Zhenya’s hand clamped hard at his hip—fingers biting deep enough to leave red marks. He thrust up without warning. The motion was violent, full-bodied, and deeper than Taekjoo was ready for.

“Fucking hell,” Taekjoo cried out, high and raw, his voice split between pain and sweet pleasure. “That—hurts…”

Zhenya could feel him from the inside for the first time with nothing between them—no barrier, no condom. Every tight, clenching spasm. Flesh gripping him like a fist, drawing him in. It was almost too much. His head fell back and his mouth dragged for air. The chain above clanked, links ringing a sharp chime. The heat inside built like a blast cap ready to go.

There was no stopping. The line between fury and want rolled under his skin.

“You started this. You wanna know what I feel?” the blond growled, yanking Taekjoo down hard onto him. “You’re about to find out.”

The thrusts got sharper, rougher. His hips slapped into the firm curve of Taekjoo’s ass with a dull, heavy smack. Every time he sank in, the flesh inside tightened—hotter, more sensitive. Zhenya lost the rhythm. Taekjoo took him with such greed he had to drag breath in through his mouth not to fly off the edge

The Korean squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers dug into Zhenya’s thighs hard enough to bruise—as if to hold him back—while his body betrayed him and surged to meet each stroke. A shiver climbed his spine. His breathing stuttered, and what left his lips was a helpless string of sound:
“Ha… ngh… fuck…”

He was moaning on nearly every thrust now, louder, less in control. The persona he built—the planner, the predator, every inch of control—fractured the moment he sank onto Zhenya’s cock.

Zhenya drowned in it—tightness, slickness, the obscene rhythm of skin against skin, need laid bare. The wet slap of bodies filled the room, echoing between gasps and curses. Taekjoo’s skin gleamed, slick and flushed. The sheet beneath them was a wreck, damp and twisted. The beat of their hips was like a second heartbeat—quick, muffled, accelerating.

“Don’t hold back,” Zhenya panted, voice breaking. “No one’s gonna hear you here.”

Something short-circuited in Taekjoo’s brain. He locked up—just for a breath. Like an animal sensing movement behind him. Then—barely—a nod. And he really did stop holding back.

“Ah—fuck… ooh—mm—” he ripped out, breath breaking like a torn seam.

The chain overhead rattled against metal, ringing sharp and fast like a metronome gone wild. Rhythm. Desperation.

“Zhenya… yes—yes—yes…”

He barely heard himself anymore. Every thrust crashed through him like a wave of white-hot pleasure laced with a bite of pain. His insides were raw, lit up, twitching with overstimulation. Oxygen thinned. Light burst behind his eyes in flickers—white, yellow, blinding. His breath stuttered, broken by his own moans, until reality blurred at the edges.

Zhenya drove harder, tighter against him. His cock was thick, painfully stiff, dragging deep through the tightness that clamped down around him like a vise. He gripped Taekjoo by the hip, lifting just slightly—enough to drive deeper, then deeper again.

The Korean cried out and twisted to glance back:
“Ah—yes… yes, right there…”

“You really suck at being patient,” Zhenya ground out, a smile wrecked across clenched teeth.

The chain sang above in sharp, fast clangs. The bed beneath them groaned with every motion.

Taekjoo’s words came in scraps, each caught to an exhale.
“By the plan… I was supposed to drag the words out of you…” His voice caught on a moan. “But instead—you fucked them out of me… Oh sh—”

Zhenya slammed in with a sharp snap of his hips, burying himself to the base. Taekjoo let go of any pretense and didn’t even try to swallow the scream it ripped from him. His lips were parted, a thin thread of spit shone on his chin; his cheeks burned, his eyes were smoked over. Every time Zhenya speared into him, he clamped down—hot, pulsing—and the heat, the squeeze, those broken sounds knocked reason out of the blond. He’d lost the rhythm. Control slipped like water through fingers.

The chain’s rattle quickened into a steady clatter, rolling between the bars. The iron scrollwork at the headboard shuddered and hummed under them. Every inch of skin woke to the other—slick, over-sensitized—like they’d been stripped to nerve endings.

Seconds—barely seconds—and Taekjoo didn’t even know what he was whispering anymore.
“I’m close… Zhenya…”

The blond slammed forward again, hard, brutal, again and again until the tension in his lower belly tightened into a burning knot. Every motion pushed him right to the edge—heat, pressure, the slick sound of skin, the wet, obscene suction of Taekjoo’s body around him.

Taekjoo didn’t resist. He let the last scrap of stubbornness fall. He grabbed at the sheets, back arching under the force of it—pain twisting up with pleasure until the moans spilling from him sounded like he was shattering with every thrust.

And right then—at the peak of that feral, senseless knot where there aren’t right words or pretty answers—Zhenya rasped against the sweat-slick skin of his back:

“I need you.”

He went quiet after. His mouth stopped lying.
Only his body remained.

And it spoke loudest of all.

Chapter Text

The old Opel heaved its way up to the familiar high-rise and coughed to a stop. Zhenya cut the ignition and stayed put in the clammy cabin, staring through a windshield furred with road film and thawing snow. Something under the hood kept ticking—cooling metal, like a tired metronome.

“Let’s go,” he said at last, voice scraped raw, and slammed the door.

Their footsteps boomed through the empty parking level. Elevator. Hallway. The soft bite of a key, a lock flipping three times—then they were in.

It felt like no one had lived here for a month, though it had only been days. The air was stale and sour. In the dark living room the aquarium bled a ghost-blue rectangle through a half-open door, water burbling in a slow, steady loop while goldfish drifted between plastic fronds. Dust rose and swirled; a thin hint of cleaner hung in the air. Everything felt wrong compared to last time—too quiet.

Taekjoo stepped in first, eyes scanning, taking the perimeter carefully.

Zhenya flicked on the light, shrugged his jacket onto the rack, toe-kicked his sneakers off without bending, and, out of habit, headed for the kitchen to check the water. Small sounds: a muttered curse, the faint clink and scrape of ceramic. Taekjoo followed the noise.

“You’ll stay here,” the blond said shortly over his shoulder. “Till this settles.”

The Korean tilted his head, watching those quick fingers pick up shards.

“Break something?”

“Yeah. A mug,” Zhenya snorted without looking up. “Been here since Friday.”

Dark eyes tracked the sweep of his hand as the grit of ceramic rattled into the trash.

“Fine,” Taekjoo said at last, voice calm. “I’ll stay. But I need my books. And clothes.”

“Your campus is off-limits. A week, minimum.”

“Why?” The line between his brows set hard.

Zhenya straightened and leaned back to the counter, palms going flat on the edge. “I don’t want to light anything up—me or you. Too much noise out there right now.”

He walked out of the kitchen. Taekjoo followed, jaw tight. In the bedroom Zhenya yanked the wardrobe open.

“Take my stuff. It’ll run big, sure, but it’s what I’ve got.”

He said it like he was talking about the weather. Taekjoo’s eyes narrowed, dangerous.

“Great. House arrest again—and in someone else’s clothes on top of it?” His voice went a degree colder. “You promised you’d drive me to class.”

Zhenya pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t start, Taekjoo. I need you to keep your head down for a week. Just… sitting here. Quiet.”

He pulled a couple of tees and a pair of lounge pants, tossed them onto the made bed. Taekjoo looked at the pile, then at him.

A taut, hanging pause.

Taekjoo exhaled through his nose, the edge softening if not quite gone. “If we’re stuck here—both of us—maybe we run a movie marathon? Rewatch all of Guy Ritchie?”

“Sure.” Zhenya’s mouth twitched at something like a smile, already fading as he moved. He was swapping jackets, palming pockets, patting for keys. He spoke on the move, as if keeping words from sitting too close. “Listen, I gotta step out. We need phones. I’ll grab SIMs. Drop in on a couple of guys. Shake the tree and figure our next steps.”

“But we just got back,” the kid said, quiet.

Zhenya darted a look at him, like he had something to say—then couldn’t find the words. Again.

“I’ll leave you cash. Order some food.” He stepped closer. “Don’t be bored, okay? I won’t be long.”

A soft kiss to the cheek.

Taekjoo’s eyes closed for half a second. His face stayed composed, but the hurt showed clean when he opened them.

Zhenya saw it. He meant to add something—just grimaced instead and turned away. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m done,” he said from the out side of the door, and something pinched under his ribs.

The Korean stood listening while the locks shot home, one after another—snick, snick, snick—until the silence fell back in.

He stood in the hall for a few seconds, then toed off his shoes, peeled off his hoodie, and, like a sleepwalker, drifted toward the bathroom.

The mirror over the sink warped his reflection.

A used-up man stared back—shadows under the eyes, hair wrecked, the body marked by very recent want. On his hips, the dark bloom of finger-shaped bruises stood out most. His lower back ached, dull and mean.

He breathed out, colorless.

What the hell did you even expect?

A minute later the water came on, a steady rush that filled the apartment’s hollow rooms and washed the edges off the quiet.

In the living room, the aquarium kept its pale glow.

Fish turned slow circles in their glass box, like nobody had told them there was no door out.

Zhenya rolled out of the courtyard in a hush.

The seat cover creaked under him; the fan pushed almost-warm air that smelled like dust and antifreeze. He drove slowly, stringing out the seconds before he had to decide anything. His cheek still burned where the slap had landed. Inside felt shitty, too.

He’d left Taekjoo. Again.
He’d promised he wouldn’t. That he’d stay.

But here he was—hands on the wheel, cigarette in his teeth, and a whole night ahead to look for answers.

“Sorry, baby,” he said into the dark, voice gone low and wrecked.

He took a long drag. Without a phone he was half-blind—he’d drowned the all of them himself. That left the old road only: go where there’s always one reliable man awake, no matter the hour of the night.

The tire service.

The stink hit him before he even got the door open—thick, choking, like someone poured melted rubber straight into his lungs. Zhenya almost gagged.

On the crooked slab of concrete out front lay shredded tire cords and greasy gloves. Faded TIRE SERVICE 24/7 banners flapped limp on bent rebar. The metal garage—bolted together out of whatever—leaked a dull, greasy light into the night. From inside: the low, pissed-off thrum of a compressor.

A stray dog loped past and gave him the kind of look you give a man who’s already halfway buried.

He made the mistake of taking a full breath. It wasn’t a smell; it was a fucking stew—burnt rubber, hot slurry, sweat, and machine oil. It coated his tongue; even his teeth felt sticky. His jacket grabbed that reek like a sponge.

He walked up and knocked a fist against the metal door.

“Open,” somebody grunted from inside.

Zhenya shoved it in.

Same scene as the last five damn years.
Inside wasn’t any better than out: stained concrete, oil puddles, tires stacked three deep, a kettle on a cardboard box, an ancient TV mutely running football. On a stool: the same puffy face, the same grease-blackened coveralls, the same pack of smokes.

Zhenya still didn’t know what the hell this guy really was. “Tire service” was a Halloween mask. Under it, the man knew too much about too many people.

Supposedly he’d “quit the criminal,” slid out, sat out the game—whatever. One time this man lit his cheap cigarette, squinted through the smoke, and muttered:
“Threads are knotted. Not cut.”

Either dumb as bricks. Or the smartest bastard the blond knew.

“Oh look—the dead walk,” the man said, nodding, friendly as a shovel. “Didn’t expect you. Figured you were already in the ground.”

“Not your lucky day,” Zhenya muttered, shouldering the door shut. “I’m in deep shit.”

“Tail on you, huh?”

The blond didn’t answer. Everything in him tightened.

That fucking stink…

“Somebody sold me out,” he said finally. “Someone who knew the route. The whole chain.”

“Heard,” the guy said, sipping tea from a dented tin mug. “Bird chirped. Same one that warned you.”

“Motherfucker…” Zhenya breathed. “Who sold me?”

“Better game—guess in three tries which one of ours flashed his ass.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen half the city these last months… Dron, Volchok… and that new kid. Junior.”

“Bingo.” The man’s mouth twisted. “Junior had a bug. In his car. Right under the seat. Can you believe that shit? We don’t even know if he’s sitting in a cell or sipping beer at home.”

“Jesus Christ… So what the hell now?” Zhenya pressed his fingers into his temples; fear rang in his voice dressed up as a snarl. “I gotta bolt the fuck out? Buy a one-way to Bumfuck Nowhere? What’s the Boss say?”

“Boss is laying low like a rat under a broom. No calls, no visitors, no nothing.” He set the mug down. “You get what that means, right? If they pop him, the whole chain falls. He ain’t covering your ass.”

Zhenya’s fists clenched; nails cut into his palms.
“And what the fuck am I supposed to do? They’ve got me boxed in, you get that? I even—” he cut himself off. “Whatever. I need help.”

“Hey, don’t lose your shit,” the man said, pushing the mug aside. “I got no fucking clue how to help you, Zhenya. I can change your oil. Throw on winter rubber if you haven’t already. Pour you tea. That’s the list.”

“Fantastic. Brilliant. Some buddy,” the blond hissed, standing—legs a little shaky. “Soon as the light hits, the roaches scatter.”

“All right, all right. Listen. Our Bird says there’s a way to make this go away quietly. Worst-case patch. Special just for you. Slip a certain precinct captain some cash. Or better—bring him a nice car. You throw enough weight at it, the case file turns into a pumpkin.”

“Oh, that just occurred to you, huh? Just a random fucking thought for the road?”

“You want them to grab you by the balls? We’re not poking our heads out either, but they’re stitching your file as we speak.”

“What a fucking ask. A car, seriously…” Zhenya winced; face pinched like a toothache. “Why not my ass while we’re at it?”

“I ain’t pushing you. I’m passing intel. The Bird’s spooked himself. If it was simple, he’d do it for you.”

“Fine,” the kid ground out through his teeth. “I need more. Two iPhones. Good ones. Clean.”

“Vovchik can handle that.” The man dug for a phone, thumbs moving slow. “I’ll text him—swing by. SIMs are no problem, too. Just have the cash.”

“Cash?” Zhenya exhaled.

“You know the drill.”

He nodded. Cash. Always cash. Money he didn’t want to spend.
The world twisted into a tight, reeking knot that made him want to puke.

He turned for the door, then paused on the threshold. “If they lock me up… you take the Bimmer?”

The man smirked without looking away from the TV. “Don’t piss yourself. I won’t sell her. She’ll sit here like a memorial. We’ll look at her and miss your pretty face.”

The door slammed with a dull, heavy clang.

Zhenya came home as quietly as if he’d turned thief in his own place. His fingers turned the key slowly in the lock. Locks clicked soft—one, two, three—and the door eased inward on a sigh.

The entryway was dark and cool; wet prints from his boots blotched the mat. He slid out of his jacket without a sound and drifted toward the only pale light in the flat.

Through the half-open living-room door, the aquarium glowed—glass lit from within, gold bellies flashing as fish drifted through plastic green. The filter’s steady burble filled the silence like someone else’s breathing. The faint tang of cleaner mixed with a citrus note he knew too well; it pinched his chest tight, like he’d slipped uninvited into a world that wasn’t his. A world already held together by a promise and nothing more.

He crossed that blue rectangle and stepped into the bedroom. Streetlight from outside broke into slivers, striping the ceiling and tossing shadows over the walls. On the bed, with the blanket knocked down to his waist, Taekjoo slept—sprawled careless as a kid, one cheek mashed into a mangled pillowcase. He breathed softly, lashes twitching once in a while, as if caught by a quiet dream. Zhenya sank down beside him: knees touched the mattress, palms settling on the sheet. He combed his fingers through the sleep-warm mess of hair—once, twice—and stopped himself. No more.

He wanted to lean in and touch those half-open lips, breathe this calm, unmoving nearness, stay a little longer. But he knew if he gave in, Taekjoo would wake and ask questions. And Zhenya didn’t have the right answers. Love wanted confessions. Life wanted decisions. Neither could be kicked down the road tonight.

He stood. The heat of that sleeping breath slipped off his skin as he stepped back. On the nightstand he set a sealed white box—new phone. Beside it, an envelope with a SIM card, and a sheet of paper folded once with his new number. Across the top, in his uneven hand: “Zhenya.” He nudged the pile deeper into shadow so it wouldn’t jump out at first glance.

His fingers still held the memory of the warmth of Taekjoo’s head. His palms prickled. The blond looked again, greedier now, taking in everything the darkness allowed—the unguarded quiet of Taekjoo’s face; no irony, no anger. Just a loose mouth, the small mole on his cheekbone, the even lift of a shoulder with each breath.

He drank in every detail.

So fucking beautiful.

He left as quietly as he’d come. Passed the aquarium’s blue rectangle, paused at the threshold, refused himself the turn of a head. In the hall the lock clicked, and the spring’s little thrum pulled him out into the cold.

Taekjoo opened his eyes a breath later—or after an eternity; time in the dark is one long stretch. He thought he’d heard a lock. Thought the air had shivered the way it does when someone crosses a room. He listened without lifting his head, looked toward the door. Nothing.

Maybe he dreamed it.

He sighed, tugged the slipped blanket up, rolled onto his side, and caught the edge in his fingers. Looked like Zhenya wasn’t coming back tonight.

Taekjoo woke late, as if his body insisted on staying asleep a little longer. Gray light seeped through the curtains in a wet, wintry sheet; outside, fat snow fell in slow, quiet clumps. He lay there a moment, savoring the soft bed, then reluctantly slid out from under the blanket and shuffled to the bathroom.

Hot water drummed against smooth, tanned skin, loosening his muscles and rinsing the worst of his thoughts down the drain. Steam carrying the scent of Zhenya’s body wash—clean with something colder beneath it—filled the room. He soaped up longer than usual, like he was trying to scrub away not drowsiness but the slow tug of emptiness inside. When the mirror turned into a solid square of fog, he shut the water off.

He went back to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and towel-dried his hair. His gaze snagged on a white box on the nightstand. He reached and picked it up. Beside it lay a roughly folded sheet with a phone number scrawled across the top.

So it hadn’t been a dream.

A thumbnail slid under the paper seals. Inside: a new iPhone, latest model—smooth, heavy, graphite—exactly like the one he’d had. He held the power button, watching the hello screens parade past in different languages. He slid in the SIM, caught mobile data, muted the junk notifications, and started pulling his accounts back in.

For a while the phone “thought,” hauling backups out of the cloud; then it came alive in a rush of vibration and pings. His feed flooded with messages: “where are you?”, “Taekjoo, did something happen?”, “the dean’s office asked about you, hope you’re okay”, “remember the deadline tomorrow?”, “Taek, why aren’t you in the dorm?” Missed calls in messengers from classmates, spam, and one too-official thread from dean.office.linguistics—the chill of the wording came through even in preview.

He built breakfast out of delivery leftovers without thinking: bread, eggs, apples, coffee. He ate standing at the counter, thumb flicking through the unread. He sent the same reply to everyone: “Lost my phone, couldn’t recover the number. This is the new one. I’m fine, don’t worry.”

More than once his hands tried to type a familiar name into the search bar—then he’d remember the address book was empty. He went back to the bedroom, unfolded the note with the scrawled number, added the contact, and saved it as Zhenya.
He tapped call. The far end came back colorless: “Subscriber temporarily unavailable.” He stared at the dimming screen for a couple of seconds, then opened Contacts, jaw tight, and stabbed the keyboard to change Zhenya to 쎄끼. [1]

You wanted to be the bad boy? Fine. Wear it.

He looked at the new name and felt a stubborn little pocket of relief open up.

Bastard. Your fault.

He let out a heavy breath, turned off notifications, and dove into his email backlog.

The day slipped past unmarked. In the living room the aquarium purred with a low motor hum; water lifted and fell. The fish were fine on that yellow glitter of flake food, untroubled by anything beyond their glass.
The Korean parked himself on the floor, then at the table, then on the bed, sorting missed topics. He even managed to dig up a pen and a notebook.

He scrolled through class group chats—and suddenly, between mailers and bank ads, caught an email shouting in caps in three languages: Korean, English, and Russian. The subject line, all caps: IMPORTANT / ВАЖНО / 중요. He opened and skimmed; dates were bolded hard. He drew his brows together and scrolled to the signature: International Office

“Completely forgot about the deadlines,” he thought, flagging it.

By evening the gray outside thickened into a deeper static, and the snow eased off. He tried the TV and let it talk to itself, shut it down, brewed tea and dumped too much sugar into it. Snacked again. Pulled up a podcast and killed it at minute five for being boring.

The phone clock slid past 02:30—dead of night here. Morning in Seoul.

He took the phone, leaned a shoulder to the aquarium’s stand, swiped the screen, opened the messenger, and tapped 엄마[2].

The lock clicked—three small sounds—and the door eased open without a word. Zhenya slipped in carrying two heavy bags, toed the mat so it wouldn’t rasp, and moved inside. Darkness held the apartment; only the aquarium’s blue rectangle lit a hunched silhouette—Taekjoo sat on the floor in that cool glow, speaking into the phone tenderly, so gently Zhenya realized he’d never heard it from him before.

The blond froze in the entryway and listened as the smooth river of Korean ran out of the half-lit room. He smelled of cold air, gasoline, wet jacket—and money: dense, tight stacks packed into the bags. He shut his eyes for a second; fatigue and guilt burned together under his ribs.

— 엄마? 나야… (Mom? It’s me…)
— …
— 응, 잘 있었어. 연락 늦어서 미안해. 며칠 정신이 없었어. (Yeah, I’m okay. Sorry I didn’t call. The last few days have been chaos.)
— …
— 휴대폰을 잃어버려서… 번호도 바뀌었어. 이게 새 번호야. (I lost my phone… The number changed too. This is my new one.)
— …
— 여긴 지금 새벽 두 시 반이야. 밖이 되게 조용해. 눈 오려나 봐… 응, 좀 춥고. (It’s 2:30 in the morning here. It’s really quiet outside. Looks like it might snow… Yeah, a little cold.)
— …
— 서류는 문제 없고, 그냥 일정이 당겨졌어. (No problem with the docs; the timeline just moved up.)

A pause.

— 응, 그럴 수밖에 없는 사정이 좀 있어. (Yeah, there are reasons; it couldn’t be helped.)
— …
— 나… 친구가 생겼어. 좀… 특별한 사람. (I… made a friend. A kind of… special person.)
— …

He laughed softly.

— 응, 쎄끼 같아. 아, 욕 아니야, 엄마. 진짜로. 그냥… 장난처럼 말한 거야. (Uh-huh, yeah, he’s a jerk. Oh, that’s not an insult, Mom. Seriously. I was just… joking.)
— …
— 성격이… 말로는 안 되는데, 참 미운 짓을 잘해. 근데, — a breath — 특별해. (His personality… hard to explain—he’s amazingly good at doing nasty things. But… he’s special.)
— …
— 학생은 아니고, 차 쪽 일을 해. 정비라기보다는… 거래? 음, 그냥 차 하는 사람이라고 해둘게. (He’s not a student; he works with cars. Not really mechanic… more like trader? Well, let's just say I work with cars.)
— …
— 응, 위험한 건 아니야. 엄마, 왜 그래—무슨 러시아 마피아야. (No, it’s not dangerous. Mom, come on—what “Russian mafia”?)
— …
— 어떤 사람이냐고?.. 키 커. 금발에 파란 눈. 예쁘… 아니, 잘생겼어. (What kind of person is he?.. Tall. Blond, blue eyes. Pretty… No, handsome.)
— …
— 엄마도 보면 좋아했을걸. 아마… — he laughs — 반했을지도? (You’d like him if you met him. Probably. Maybe… even fall in love?)
— …
— 요 며칠 연락 못 받아서 미안. 수업이랑, 처리할 게 너무 많았어. (Sorry I was out of touch these few days. Classes, and way too much to sort out.)
— …
— 괜찮아. 잘 먹고 있어. 근데 엄마 밥이 생각난다. 김치찌개… 잡채도, — a pause — 응, 진짜. (I’m fine. Eating properly. But I miss your cooking. Kimchi jjigae… and japchae, too. Yeah, really.)
— …
— 결정은… 아직. (As for decisions… not yet.)
— …
— 괜찮아. 나 잘 지내. 너무 걱정하지 마. (It’s okay. I’m doing fine. Don’t worry too much.)
— …
— 며칠만. 정리되면 바로 전화할게. (Just a few days. I'll call you as soon as it's sorted out.)
— …
— 응… 나도. 사랑해, 엄마. (Yeah… me too. I love you, Mom.)

Taekjoo turned suddenly and saw him. Inside, everything flipped at once: the anger, the relief that he was here, that he was all right—even if two days late.

— 나 지금… 혼자가 아니야. 이따가 다시 전화할게. (I’m… not alone right now. I’ll call you back later.)
— …
— 응, 사랑해. 끊을게. (Okay, love you. Hanging up.)

The call ended. The blond shrugged out of his jacket and came closer.

“Your mom?” he asked, low, shoulder to the doorframe.

“Yeah,” Taekjoo said, without getting up. “Gave her the new number. And that I’m okay.”

“And about me?” Zhenya tried for a smile.

“I did,” Taekjoo said, turning to look straight at his tired face. “That you’re a special person in my life. But… not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I didn’t tell her the exact thing you should be saying out loud to me,” a thin thread of hurt ran through his voice.

Zhenya’s eyes dropped. His shoulders sank. He set the bags by the wall. A zipper slipped open on its own—the white bank band around a red brick of cash showed at the edge. Taekjoo glanced at it, then back to him.

“Where were you for two days?”

“Finding cash to fix this,” Zhenya said, rough. “A buddy floated part… the rest’s mine. Those pals—as usual—soon as it gets rough, they stick their heads in the sand. I want to cut loose from that shitty crew…” He scraped a hand down his face. “Tomorrow I meet a certain asshole. And I’ll settle it. You’ll be back at the uni.”

“You’re making promises again.”

“But I came back,” the blond breathed. “I came back to you.”

“After only two days,” the Korean said, unyielding.

Silence. The aquarium bubbled. The fish did what fish do—pretended they had no problems at all.

“You haven’t eaten,” Taekjoo said after a moment, studying him closer. “And you haven’t slept.”

“Can’t choke anything down,” Zhenya’s mouth twitched. “I just want a shower and a blackout… I really am fixing it, Taek. Really.” A crooked ghost of a grin. “Don’t be mad at me, okay? I’ll drive you to class. In the Bimmer.”

The Korean stood and came in close. He took Zhenya’s wrist and turned the palm up gently. Knuckles skinned, nails split, oil ground into the pads. He brought that hand to his mouth and laid short, warm kisses over the battered skin. The blond flushed and forgot how to breathe for half a beat.

“Go shower. I’ll bring a towel. Then we get into bed,” he said, thumb brushing a quick stroke along the hot line under Zhenya’s cheekbone. “And—” almost a whisper, “thanks for the phone.”

Zhenya nodded, swallowing hard. Words clogged his throat. He brushed Taekjoo’s wrist in answer for a second.

God, he’s so… fuck.

The blond took a few steps toward the doorway, then stopped and turned. “Taek… I’m dead on my feet. But I’m not leaving you. You hear me?” He looked straight at him, very serious. It almost sounded like the confession he still hadn’t said. “A day or two—and you’re back at the uni. In the Bimmer.”

“No promises,” the Korean said gently. “Tonight, just be with me.”

Zhenya nodded and disappeared into the doorway. Water thrummed in the pipes.

Taekjoo went to the bedroom for a towel. When he came back, steam was already pushing into the hall—warm and scented with that same sharp-clean note. He paused in the doorway and let it roll over him. For the first time in two days, something in his chest eased.

The grimy chaikhana[3] met Zhenya with greasy carpets and the sickly, yellow sting of ceiling bulbs. Music videos jumped, mute, on a wall-mounted TV; from the corner, a mangal hissed and spat. The air reeked of singed fat, cumin, vinegar, and old oil—like the whole place had been pan-fried and never scrubbed. It clung to the tongue like a film.

The captain—dirty cop—was already sitting by the window. Not in uniform—“civilian” clothes that hugged all the wrong places, two sizes too small, every useless inch on display. Big-boned, soft-meated; every movement set his bulk wobbling. Under the weak amber light his bald dome shone; a thin gold chain bit into the creases of his neck. Small, sunken eyes skittered around the room until they fixed on the blond.

Zhenya came up and stared at the man’s hands around a fork. Plump, pink, and wrong: manicured to a shine, cuticles sliced clean, clear polish catching the light.

“Look who finally parked,” the captain offered a napkin instead of hello. “Wipe your crying eyes, Mr. Prettyface.”

Zhenya didn’t sit. The stink of lamb shashlik and vinegar stabbed his nose so hard his stomach cramped.

“I brought what we agreed,” he said, dry, through his teeth.

“Park your little ass,” the captain tipped his chin at the chair opposite. “There’s no truth on your feet. Have some tea. Get your vitamins.” He nodded at a piala and a plate where meat shone with fat. “And business. Same as we agreed with Bird: cash goes down here,” his finger tapped the gummy underside of the table with those shiny nails, “and on top, you add a tiny gesture of goodwill. A bonus for me from a forgetful boy.”

“What. Bonus.” Not a question—Zhenya’s lip twitched.

“A car,” the cop cooed, almost tender. “Not your fast little black princess. Keep her—for now. I can find her if I want. You’ll buy me a new one. Something German. Still fresh. Register it in your name, then transfer it to me—nice and clean, like a gentleman. Understand me?”

Metal swelled in Zhenya’s mouth. He realized he’d bitten the inside of his cheek.

“Oh, don’t make it a drama,” the captain snorted, pinching up a tangle of marinated onion and throwing it into his mouth with a lazy push. “You’re a handy boy—you’ve got money. If the sum hurts, you top it up with the surnames of your buddies,” he flicked his eyes at the bags by Zhenya’s boots. “But you brought everything, didn’t you? Good boy.”

Zhenya nudged the bags forward with his toe. The captain didn’t even bend; he toed them toward himself with a polished shoe.

“I’ll count every ruble, Blonde,” he cooed. “That’s the job.” He slapped a folder on the table and flipped it open at random. Pages of speed-camera printouts fanned out—timestamps, locations, fines. On top, a black-and-white still: a BMW on a wet road, headlight flare blown across the plate, and in the cabin the profile of a young guy with Asian features. Beside it, a frame from another cam: Zhenya at the wheel, lips pressed thin the way they got when he was angry.

“I know everything about you, pretty boy.” He tapped the image of Taekjoo; the pale crescent of his nail flashed. “About your big brothers. About your sweet nieces—such adorable little girls! And about your foreign friend—the student. Visas, regimes, blah-blah. We’re cultured now. International.” His eyes met Zhenya’s and stayed flat. “Don’t be stupid. Cooperate and everybody goes home in one piece.”

Zhenya looked at those nails and thought about his own hands. His fingers curled before he knew it. Nausea rolled up to his throat—mixing with fear.

“Where and when,” he said.

The captain’s smile creased into his cheeks. “Now we’re talking. Today the cash stays with me. In a week—” he slid another sheet across, “—you bring me a VIN on a little sheet, and the parking address. The re-registration you do yourself. You’re persuasive when you want to be, aren’t you? You know how to use it.”

“And if it doesn’t work out?” Zhenya asked without looking up.

“It’ll work.” The captain licked his finger and flipped a page. “Don’t buy the bedtime story about ‘werewolves in epaulettes,’” he chuckled. “We’re not werewolves. We’re fairy godmothers. One little envelope”—he wiggled his fingers—“and presto, you’re squeaky clean. Paper turns into a pumpkin.” He flicked the printout with a nail. “Pretty, right? Pure magic.”

Silence spread. Someone yelled, “Two kebabs—takeout!” from the kitchen; the door banged, dragging a wet draft through the cumin-fogged heat.

“And another thing.” He leaned in. The smell off him hit like a slap—vinegar, smoke, the sweet rot of old mutton fat. “Stop chauffeuring your little charmer around at night. You don’t want him packing for home so soon, do ya?” His eyes slid sideways. “Drive slow—live long.”

Zhenya lifted his gaze.

“That a threat?”

“Oh, come on.” The captain spread his hands; grease quivered on his wrists. “It’s care. I worry about your bright future.” He smiled wider; his eyes stayed empty. “Smile back once for me, Mr. Prettyface. You’ve got a beautiful face and don’t even use it.”

Not a muscle moved in Zhenya’s mouth.

The captain sagged back, speared another cube of meat, let the fat run down the tine like a thread. He chewed slowly, talked around it, lips slick. “So. Today’s delivery—I see it.” He nudged the bags closer with a toe. “The bonus—you’ll prep. No solo heroics. We’ll love each other briefly and then we’ll part. You walk out with a clean, pretty face and your raven-black Bimmer princess. Me—without a headache. Understand?”

“Clear,” the blond said. His voice sounded like someone else’s.

“Attaboy.” A soft nod. Another bite, and he went back to feeding his hole. “Be a smart one.”

Zhenya stood so fast white sparks popped at the edge of his vision.

“Can I go?” He didn’t look up.

“You can.” The captain dabbed his mouth with a fresh napkin, then jabbed the photo of the BMW again. “Don’t waste your time. A week is a week, Blonde.”

Outside, the cold slapped him hard as he shoved through the door. He didn’t make it far—just around the corner—and folded at the waist, both palms on the rough wall, retching until bile burned his throat and tears pricked from the strain. Vinegar and old fat were in his nose.

He looked at his hands again—split knuckles, ground-in oil—and remembered those pink fingers with pampered half-moons.

“Fuck… disgusting,” he said to the empty air.

He straightened and dragged a hand down his face, flinching when his bruised cheek lit up. Inside, the foulness boiled in his gut. The adrenaline, romance of the road, the high of speed and engine song—all churned into sticky rot. Deals. Bribes. A fat cop in love with his own power. Paper pumpkins.

He sucked a breath like he was about to dive into ice. Closed his eyes—another picture pushed up: a warm mouth against his battered knuckles, a level voice, a soft “thanks for the phone.”

For him. For the two of them.

Zhenya’s mouth twitched into something bitter at himself. He fished out a cigarette, snapped a capsule, and lit up. Menthol cooled his mouth, his head.

“A week,” he said quietly.

That one week cinched around his throat tighter than any noose.

Zhenya slid the key into the lock—and it wouldn’t turn. His brows shot up; he pressed the handle.

Unlocked..?

The first thing that hit him: the entryway rug was empty where a pair of familiar sneakers should’ve been. His heart gave a mean little pinch.

Seriously? Stormed out and left the apartment open? Or… no. No fucking way.

“Taekjoo?” he called, voice flat, hollow.

No answer.

He kicked his shoes off and went straight for the bedroom. On the chair: his own clothes, folded neatly. On the nightstand: nothing—no white box, no scrap of paper. The bathroom: dry. Coatrack: bare. The closet: only his things. Anything that could’ve belonged to Taekjoo was gone.

In the kitchen, the steel sink shone, wiped to a mirror. No crumbs, no water spots, not even a stray spoon. Like somebody had tidied on purpose before leaving.

Before what..?

His phone was in his hand before the thought finished. Fingers trembled. Call. Ring. Then the same flat voice:
“The subscriber is temporarily unavailable.”

Again.

“The subscriber is temporarily unavailable.”

Again.

Zhenya made a full circuit of the flat—he even, fuck it, checked the oven.
Empty. And that—that emptiness—was the worst of it.

Then the thought fired—clean, saving, and necessary.

University.

Of course. They’d called him in—attendance, signatures, whatever. Maybe the phone died.
It’s fine.

Zhenya actually flinched at his own “it’s fine.”

What if that pig in a uniform—

Door wide open, Taek gone, calls dead, not even a note. He just walked out..?

You told him to lay low. He wouldn’t leave without a word. He’d write. He would, he would.

Zhenya blew out of the door so fast he clipped the threshold.

A minute later the car was crab-walking its tires through slush. He buried the pedal; the old Opel moved like a fucking cow in a coma.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” he grated through his teeth.

At the light, yellow popped—he threw the car across the intersection and almost kissed a Kia’s bumper; the brakes screeched, his skull thunked forward toward the wheel. The metal taste of adrenaline flooded his mouth.

“Fuck…”

The university met him with a tall wooden door and a gate dragon whose eyes didn’t bother to lift.

“Pass.”

“I need a student. Urgent.” His voice cracked. “Very urgent.”

“No pass—no entry. The dean’s office hours are over. Personal matters are to be handled off campus.”

“Listen, this is important.”

“Young man, stop blocking the door. Or shall I call the police?”
He backed up, strangling the phone until his knuckles went white. She sighed—maybe pity, maybe boredom—and threw him a bone.

“I’ve no idea who you’re waiting for, young man, but there are no classes right now. If it’s the dean’s office, come back Monday.”

Fine. Not the university. Next logical stop—the dorm.

He latched onto that thought like a drifting plank.

Maybe he’d just come here for a minute. Maybe everything was fine. He’d pull up—and there he’d be. He’d smile and call me a paranoid asshole.

The Opel snapped to life, lurching forward. The engine rasped, refused to go any faster. His jaw was clenched so tight the molars throbbed.

“Come on… just a little more…”

The dorm guard looked past his head like a watchdog sizing up trouble.

“We don’t give out resident lists. Personal data. You knock that door again and I’m calling a squad.”

“I’m not— I just need to know: is Kwon Taekjoo here?”

“Good night.”

The door shut. Inside—three dry clicks. Like a tiny, mocking metronome.

Back in the car, he sat but didn’t move. Checked the brake. Set his elbows on the wheel and stared into nothing.

I’ll wait. Even if he’s still in the city after classes, this is where he comes back. Sooner or later.

He parked under the dorm’s yellow-lit vestibule and watched the warm lobby like a fish tank. People drifted past the guard, disappeared into an elevator; someone laughed, someone wrestled grocery bags.
No Taekjoo.

Every ten minutes he hit the green call button.

“The subscriber is temporarily unavailable.”

He’ll be back. He’s not like that. He’s polite, sensible. He doesn’t abandon people.

Snow pasted itself to the windshield; the wipers scraped dry. His fingers went numb. He cranked the heat; the blower pushed damp cold. At some point his teeth started chattering on their own. He hit call again. And again.

“The subscriber is temporarily unavailable.”

When the dash clock crawled well past midnight, his brain tapped out. The only option left was the his neighborhood—a slow, stupid sweep of 24/7s and pharmacies. Stupid? Fine. Otherwise he’d detonate.

He prowled there.
The shop by the subway—“Haven’t seen him.”
The discount market—dark and shuttered.
Another call. The same voice he already hated like a physical thing:

“The subscriber is temporarily unavailable.”

He got home toward morning. The flat felt colder than the street. He drifted room to room like a caged animal until the ugliest thought sat up and waved: What if he’s in danger..? What if that captain—

His throat cinched on pure fear.

Who the hell could he call? The Bird—no. The “buddies”—ghosted. The dean’s office? Classmates? His mother?

He didn’t even have her name. No number. He knew fuck-all—except the clean citrus of his shampoo and the way how that kid laughed with his eyes squeezed shut into tiny lines. That, for fuck’s sake, wouldn’t save him if anything went wrong.

He dropped onto a kitchen chair. The black glass threw back a pale, tight face. He didn’t let go of the phone—cramp bit his fingers. He sat and listened hard for the smallest signs: the click of a handle, a change in the hallway air, a soft knock.

Nothing. Just the aquarium’s burble and the faint scratch of snow outside.

He blacked out sitting up, folded over himself, the phone caged in his palm. He dreamed water. And that cold voice that already made him sick.

“The subscriber is temporarily unavailable.”

Saint Petersburg morning cracked with rime. White and raw. The windshield frosted at the edges, wipers croaked. The wheel thudded in his hands over every pothole like it was sick of the ride too. Outside—gray wash, headlights smeared like wet chalk.

How many stops had he made already? The university. The dorm. Backstreets, parks, even that roof on Ligovsky where they’d smoked and watched the city flicker—because insanity is visiting old ghosts and hoping they answer the door.

The phone was a dead slab—no calls, no messages. Just a black mirror he didn’t want to see himself in.
He held the wheel like his life depended on it. His knuckles had gone bone-white. The jacket was open to his chest—cold in his bones, but he didn’t feel it. His heart made enough noise for the whole car.

He couldn’t make himself believe it. Couldn’t allow the thought that Taekjoo had just… gone.
No goodbye. No reason. Just air.

I’ve been everywhere. Where the hell are you?

Thoughts scrabbled inside his skull like mice in a sack—each dumber, meaner, more pointless than the last.

Maybe they grabbed him. Maybe he freaked out because of me. Maybe I fucked it all by being an idiot.

The blond smacked the wheel—hard, the plastic cracking under his palm.

“Fuck!”

He wouldn’t just leave me like that…

At the next intersection—his phone buzzed.
Vibration in his pocket, sharp and shocking. He jerked, swerved a tire onto the curb, fumbled the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?!”

“Um… Is this Evgeny?” A girl. Thin voice, scared. “We need to meet. About Kwon Taekjoo.”

He went still.

“Where is he? Is he okay? Who the fuck are you?!”

“My name is Yulia. We’re classmates. He… he left something for you. Said it’s important.” She swallowed. “The cafe N on the Fontanka[4], entrance on the embankment. Can you be here in thirty minutes?”

“Yeah,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he’d said it out loud.

The drive to the river slid by like a fever.

Snow started again, fat and relentless. The Opel howled but wouldn’t go faster. Zhenya cursed under his breath and pressed to the gas for every green light. On one turn the rear end flicked—pure ice under a dust of snow—the ABS rattled in the pedal, and he caught the car in the slide on instinct.

At the spot, the blond scraped to a stop flush with the parapet. Outside, the river wind began to slap his face and bit his cheeks.

Yulia waited by the cafe door, bouncing on her heels—pink puffer, a ridiculous pom-pom hat, nose red from the cold. She looked at him, wary and determined in the same breath—like a task to do and be done with. Girl lifted a hand and, not waiting for any question, closed the distance.

“You’re Evgeny?” Before he could get a single word, she held out a sheet folded in quarters. “Here. Take it. I don’t know what it is. He just asked me to give it to you.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He only said: ‘Give it to him.’”

"Sorry." She dropped her eyes and slipped into the warm café behind her.

He stood alone on the embankment.
The paper rattled in his fingers. Wind tried to tear it out; he held on. His sleeve slid back—purple bruising showed at his wrist where the handcuff had been. Funny—it barely hurt anymore.

The handwriting inside was neat to the point of prettiness—careful strokes, almost calligraphy:
“I flew away. The exchange program ended.
I’m sorry we didn’t say goodbye. Don’t blame yourself, please.
I couldn’t have left if you were looking at me.
And you know… There are interesting cars in Seoul, too.”

Below that, in the same tidy hand, an address—written three ways: Korean, English, and Russian.

He read it again. And again. Like there had to be more if he just looked hard enough. A whiff of something sweet lifted off the paper—strawberry cookie, childish and wrong in the knife-cold wind. His hands flushed from the cold. Pain knotted tight under his sternum.

You just up and left. What the fuck, Taekjoo..?

He fished a cigarette out, flicked the lighter. Menthol filled his lungs with freshness.

He walked to the edge. The water below was black and heavy, the wind pushing slanted ripples down the river. In his head, out of nowhere, a stupid memory: Taekjoo smiling, trying to explain about kimchi.

Zhenya huffed a laugh through his nose, shook his head.

“Fermentation of the soul, huh…”

He looked at the note once more. Folded it carefully and slid it into his inside pocket of his jacket.

So—this is how it’s going to be.

He smoked it down to the filter. Drew one long breath, dropped the butt, and turned back for the car.

“Let’s see what kind of cars they’ve got in Korea.”