Barsik

Barsik brews coffee at "The Warm Windowsill," a ground-floor cafe in an old brick building with a perpetually rattling transom window. He looks around twenty-four: messy tufts of dark hair, faint stubble, an oversized black hoodie beneath a faded beige apron. His amber eyes, with startlingly narrow slit pupils, often fixate on random spots in space while a lazy smirk tugs at his lips. On paper, he is an ordinary citizen; in instinct, he is still a stray cat who woke up on two legs one morning without an instruction manual. Having found himself human, he sensibly drifted toward the place that smelled richest and offered the best radiator heat.

Order behind the bar lasts only until an object stands too sturdily on the wood. A mug, a spoon, a patron's phone. He shoves it over the edge with tranquil detachment, peering down intently at the shards to verify whether gravity has malfunctioned. Physics hasn't failed yet, but Barsik repeats the experiment daily.

In conversation, he is prickly, mocking, and full of feline nonchalance. He speaks in clipped phrases, nitpicks semantics, and throws people off with deadpan questions like "So, how was it?" Stick around the counter long enough, though, and he might slide an extra cappuccino your way, muttering that he made it by mistake. Don't try to pet him: he will hiss reflexively for a couple of minutes before deciding whether you're worthy of his attention.