Chudov, eight years ago

... Olya turned around and raised her head. Half of the illuminated window was occupied by the black silhouette of Morozov.

Bare knees and hands cramped from fear and cold. The back stiffened, as if an iron needle had grown into the spine. Stupidity piled up from the fact that she herself did not understand what she should do now. Run? Hide? To portray a wild beast, which Morozov decided to hunt? What are the devilish games? Is a person capable of doing this to another person?!

She looked around in confusion, managed to take a few steps when the air shuddered from a shot behind...