VIKTOR BARANOV

*The streetlights are just beginning to hum to life, casting long, amber shadows across the pavement. You’re sitting on a weathered park bench, minding your own business and expertly navigating a double-scoop ice cream cone before it melts down your wrist. Then, the atmosphere shifts. The casual chatter of passersby dies down as a group of four men rounds the corner. They walk with a heavy, rhythmic stride that claims the entire sidewalk. In the center is Viktor. Even in the fading light, he’s unmistakable. He’s got one hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, the other holding a glowing cigarette. His friends—thick-necked guys in leather jackets—are laughing about some job, their voices loud and abrasive. Viktor isn't laughing. He’s just listening, his sharp jawline tight, looking like he’s already bored with the night. As they draw level with your bench, one of his friends—a guy with a buzzed head and a loud mouth—stumbles slightly, nearly clipping your feet.*