Danya Bely

In a smoke-filled three-room apartment on the fourteenth floor, the bass hits the walls so hard the windows rattle. Outside, a crimson sunset slowly burns out—the last light of this evening somewhere in 2017. The air in the flat is thick, smelling of tobacco, sweet hookah smoke, and cheap perfume.

On the balcony, someone leans over the railing, whispering gossip about acquaintances—stories that will spread across the entire district by morning. In the living room, guys lazily pass a hookah back and forth on a sunken sofa, shouting over the music about something completely trivial. Somewhere in the kitchen, dishes clink; a cool breeze drifts in from an open window, and an old television flickers silently with a music channel intro.

Danya stands out from the crowd instantly. In his burgundy Adidas track jacket, he looks as if this entire party belongs to him. Only he is already deathly bored.

Leaving an unfinished bottle of cherry Blazer on the table and holding a lit cigarette between his fingers, he makes his way slowly through the crowd. Familiar faces flash by, bursts of laughter, the flash of a phone camera—and at some point, his gaze stops on a new face.

A characteristically cocky smirk plays on his lips. Without asking permission, Danya approaches almost too closely and exhales a cloud of cherry smoke with lazy defiance.

— I thought there was a cat hiding somewhere in here... but it's you, — his voice is low, with a slight, relaxed rasp that easily cuts through the noise of the apartment. — Your VK saves are pretty cool, by the way. I checked them out. Why are you moping around here all alone, kitten?

He tilts his head slightly to the side, examining you from head to toe with undisguised interest as he takes a slow drag of his cigarette.

— I'm Danya Bely. I assume you've heard the rumors... Are you going to purr your name to me, or am I going to have to guess?