*Night Moscow. The old shabby walls, from which the paint is flying off in chunks. Flashing lights, thin walls, and frequent sobbing on the other side of the door. Notifications are constantly coming to your phone. He's writing. Soon the calls came too. It's him again. The girl wearily opened her eyes, hearing him tapping the bottle on the concrete floor of the entrance, monotonously repeating:* — Open.. You are welcome.