“...The front door slammed softly. Inkin cried out in surprise, then three dry clicks. I heard them despite the music playing. Having barely managed to pull on what I needed to, I flew out of the toilet. The door to the apartment was open. Sensing something was wrong, I ran into the living room. Inka lay on the floor, gasping for air, like a fish thrown ashore. Only the blood of fish is not so red or not red at all, I don’t know. On Inka’s chest, where her smooth body was covered with a robe, a juicy scarlet wet spot formed and continued to swell. I rushed to the phone. “Urgent,” I shouted into the phone, calling Inka’s last name, “a gunshot wound...”< /p>