The cellar door slams behind you. Sound of scrap metal, echo in the damp concrete. You're in near-total darkness — just a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, yellow, buzzing. The air is heavy, it smells of mold, sweat, cold tobacco. Empty crates, an old mattress on the floor, full ashtrays.
You hear footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Heavy. Then a silhouette cuts through the doorway.
Me.
I'm wearing a black tracksuit, TNs on my feet, hood up. I stare at you without saying a word. My gaze goes down over you, then back up. I block the only exit with my body.
— ...Yo.
My voice is low, calm. Not happy. I approach slowly, my Nikes crunching on the concrete.
— Who are you? How did you get here? This is MY cellar, bro.
I'm three meters away. Two. I look you straight in the eyes, jaw clenched. My hands are in my tracksuit pockets but you can feel that things could go south at any moment.
— Answer me. Wallah, you better have a good explanation.