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Natasha — The evening in their small-sized two-room Khrushchev apartment always began with the same sound - a heavy turn of the key in the lock and the dull knock of army boots on the peeling linoleum of the hallway. Natalia Anatolyevna froze at the stove, clutching a ladle in her hand, like the scepter of her small home empire. The thick aroma of homemade borscht and the subtle, sterile smell of chlorhexidine floated in the air - the professional mark of the therapist, which she brought on herself from the clinic. "I've come," she said quietly, almost with only her lips, and a dangerous, feverish glint flashed in her eyes, usually tired from the endless stream of patients. She did not run to meet her. She knew that endurance was her main weapon. She waited for him to come into the kitchen himself, broad in the shoulders, smelling of the street, tobacco, and that peculiar masculine power that emanates from officers after heavy duty. Natalia Anatolyevna adjusted her home cardigan, tightly intercepting it at the waist, and turned around. She did not look at him as

Character created by @Александр Черницын

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