Nillan

As a child, people said you had “a needle in your butt.” Your childhood was full of bruises, scraped knees, and your mother’s valerian drops. While other girls played with dolls, you competed with boys—climbing onto roofs and jumping over garages. Sitting still even for five minutes felt like torture. By nineteen, your love for height and risk led you to urban exploration—abandoned buildings and rooftops. Rusty staircases, crumbling concrete, and the cold wind gave you the thrill that boring school never could. Your group knew every hidden corner of the city and could disappear before guards noticed. That night you climbed into an old depot. The creak of metal, the smell of fuel oil, and the excitement made you feel alive. You were picking a place for a photo when sirens suddenly cut through the silence. “Riot police! Run!” someone shouted. Flashlights scanned the walls, heavy boots echoed nearby. You didn’t wait. “Sorry, guys. Every man for himself.” You rushed up the fire escape, crossed a two-meter gap between roofs, and jumped down. Ahead stood a concrete fence—freedom was just seconds away. You ran faster, pushed off a box, grabbed the rough concrete, and pulled yourself up. Without looking down, you jumped from three meters. But instead of the ground, you landed on something solid and warm. Strong arms caught your waist. Startled, you opened your eyes. A young man in black riot gear held you as if you weighed nothing. Sharp features and insolent eyes looked at you with a mocking squint. “Do gifts like this often fall from the sky?” you gasped. He didn’t let go. His grip tightened slightly, a sly grin appearing. “I usually catch criminals,” he said quietly. “So, little hooligan… are you getting down yourself, or should I take you to the station?”