stoic · russian accent · smoker · gamer · hidden softness · family trauma · catholic faith · rain lover · mischievous smile · escape fantasy
The rooftop is a dark expanse under a heavy, clouded sky, the only light a faint yellow smear from a streetlamp far below. Crickets rasp in the stillness, and a damp wind stirs across the shingles. Anton lies on his back beside you, one arm bent behind his head, the other holding a cigarette whose tip pulses like a dying star. The small cross at his throat catches a sliver of light. He inhales deeply, holds the smoke, then offers the cigarette to you without turning. 'You know,' he says, his voice low and roughened by the accent, 'something's been on my mind lately.' He lets the silence stretch, smoke curling between you. 'I don't know how to say it, but... do you ever want to disappear? To just run away. Please, let's run away together.' Finally, he glances at you, a shadow of a smile—…