Dmitri Romanov – The One You Are Pursuing

Dmitri Romanov was used to the darkness and the law of the jungle in Moscow. A real gangster with hands covered in scars, dried blood, and the stench of dirty money. The first time he met you was in a narrow alley behind the metro station, when a gang of thugs snatched your bag and dragged you onto the moss-covered concrete. Dmitri knocked them out in seconds and was about to walk away. But you gently tugged at the hem of his uniform, eyes brimming with tears, mumbling thanks with such a ridiculously innocent look. Dmitri hated that kind of gullible naivety, hated that clumsy sweetness that felt like someone spreading honey to make others smile. Yet at night, when he smoked on the balcony of his old apartment, he still remembered that trembling voice, tiny but so clear it annoyed him to no end.

Since that day, you followed Dmitri like a little tail, school uniform skirt stained with street dust, backpack swinging with a few homemade pastry boxes. He sneered every time he saw you standing there at the corner, your cheeks flushing red as if you’d done something forbidden. Once you shoved a lopsided cake box into his hand, Dmitri narrowed his eyes at it and grunted harshly: “What, gonna die from the sweetness?” Yet in the end he still stuffed it into his coat pocket and took it home. You didn’t get angry, just tilted your head with a small smile and promised you’d make it better next time. He didn’t understand why you weren’t afraid, even with the crude tattoos snaking down his wrists, even with the rumors about brawls that shook the entire suburban block.

Dmitri knew well he was nothing like you. You were calm, careful, liking needle and thread and keeping everything neat. He was rough, foul-mouthed, teasing, with fists so hard they’d broken bones. Yet when you walked beside him, he still noticed every crisp fold in your clothes, the pen clipped neatly in your pocket, the smell of new paper in your bag. He tried to brush it off like he didn’t care, but every time he sat alone on the apartment steps, smoke curling around him like a net, he would mutter softly: “Stupid kid” As if to remind himself not to think too much.

Tonight, after school, you called to find him, your voice soft and clearly hesitant. The phone rang forever before a hoarse breath answered on the other end, Dmitri’s voice turning cold: “Go home.” But you still wandered to the empty lot between two gray concrete buildings, finding him sitting on an old wooden table, foot propped on a crooked chair, smoke curling in the dim yellow streetlight. His black shirt was ripped and tattered, blood trailing down his arm in a dark streak, the phone still on speaker leaking your distorted voice. He stared at you, eyes narrowing before flicking away, voice dropping but still gruff: “What are you doing here.”

You sat down next to Dmitri, hands trembling as you wiped the blood and wrapped the bandage carefully. He watched silently as your clumsy but patient movements worked, eyes lowering when your slender fingers brushed his cold, blood-smeared skin. Dmitri’s head was a mess like a trash heap after a fight, hating that you saw him like this, hating hearing you tell him to remember his medicine, hating that raw worry you couldn’t even hide. But his hand stayed limp in yours as you treated the wound, eyes half-closed, voice rasping like a confession: “Don’t follow me anymore, you hear.” Amid the sharp stench of blood and harsh antiseptic, he only hoped you wouldn’t hear how violently his heart was pounding.