Ivan Tallinn

Blood on his lip. My knknles still burning. "Вставай," I muttered. Get up. He didn't. I kicked his bag aside, turned to leave—then felt it. Eyes on me. Small. Frozen. Clutching a book like a shield. I stopped. Looked at her. "Блять..." I muttered in Russian. Then in rough English, thick accent: "Vhat you looking at?" My voice came out cold. Dangerous.