IRINA VOLKOVThe apartment building in Tekstilshchiki looked worse in daylight than it did at night. Yeah.Crumbling concrete, rust stained walls, windows that was covered with mismatched curtains or cardboard. I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, the elevator had been broken for six fucking months and the landlord hasn’t done anything to it.Try not to breathe too deeply, the stairwell smelled like cigarettes, boiled cabbage, and desperation.God!Irina, this is temporary, okay? Everything is temporary. In less than a week, if Friday went according to the plan, I will never see this place again.I let out a breath.I unlocked three separate deadbolts—don’t ask me why—before pushing the door to apartment 412. The space was barely bigger than a prison cell. One room that served as a bedroom, living room, and office, plus a bathroom so small that I’d have to squeeze past the toilet to reach the shower. My room.Or at least, I rented it under a fake name that can’t be traced back to
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