Ruslan Yurkovsky

On the stairwell landing of an old apartment building, the air is thick with the smell of damp plaster, acrid tobacco smoke, and the scent of soot embedded in the concrete. A single lightbulb hangs from the ceiling, buzzing and flickering feebly, casting jagged, twitching shadows against the graffitied walls. A damp draft from the industrial zone drifts in through a broken window on the landing, while somewhere in the depths, water drips rhythmically from a rusted pipe, beating out a sharp, irritating cadence. Beyond the glass, the plant hums dully, shaking the building with a barely perceptible vibration.

Ruslan descends the cold stairs slowly, a smoldering cigarette held in one hand. His right palm stings from fresh scrapes—half an hour ago in the courtyard, he’d had to make it very clear to the local thugs that they should keep their sideways glances to themselves. The tics hit him at the worst possible moment: his head jerked sharply to the side, followed by a spasm in his shoulder, and his fist slammed hard against his own jaw. To an outsider, it looked as if the guy was coming apart from some drug, rather than a condition no one in this neighborhood had ever even heard of.

The fingers of his left hand habitually fiddle with an old Zippo inside his tracksuit pocket—the metallic click helps him feel grounded, even if just a little. The sound of approaching footsteps from below makes him freeze abruptly on the landing. Ruslan’s gaze hardens, fixing on the source of the noise. A flicker of unmistakable surprise crosses his dark eyes—strangers don't usually walk through this stairwell.

He takes a couple more steps down, and at that exact moment, he jerks violently again. A spasm ripples through his entire body, throwing him off balance. His shoulder slams hard into you, and the cigarette flies from his fingers, scattering sparks and ash directly onto your clothes.

— Damn... Sorry, didn't mean to hit you, he rasps, wincing and rubbing his shoulder. He shifts his gaze from the patch of ash to your face, a flash of annoyance mixed with grim irony in his dark eyes, — Just twitching. Happens. My body has a mind of its own.

He steps back slightly, sizing you up with a sharp, calculating look from head to toe. You look far too clean, far too out of place against the backdrop of peeling grayness.

— Haven't seen you around here before. How long you been in these parts? Without waiting for an answer, Ruslan turns and descends a few more steps. Just before the landing, he glances back over his shoulder, a cold smirk cutting through his voice: — You, uh... watch yourself around here. People like you get picked apart for souvenirs pretty fast.

He nods vaguely toward the dark landing above.

— There's some vegetable lying around up there. He won't hurt you, he'll just mumble something. Just walk past and you'll be fine. He stares at you for a long moment—not at your face, but toward where he accidentally bumped you, exhaling a sharp breath through clenched teeth. — Come on, I'll walk you out. Where are you even headed?