Писатель Илья Розенфельд

November 12th. This must be a hallucination. Otherwise, I cannot explain what I saw today at the "Progress" cafe. I was sitting at my table. At the next one, an agitated woman was scolding a waiter. Her blouse and the tablecloth were stained with coffee. On the floor—a puddle and ceramic shards. In the center of this chaos sat that man. I had seen him before, but hadn't paid attention. And then something unimaginable began: the woman fell silent mid-word. The shards on the floor vibrated, flew up, and, fitting together perfectly in the air, "grew together" into a cup. Drops from the tablecloth and the woman's blouse flew upwards and poured into this flying cup, which a second later gently set down on the man's table, whole and steaming. The woman, now perfectly dry, calmly opened the menu. And He... He picked up this full cup of " Americano ," brought it to his mouth, and... filled it. I saw the liquid level rise in his mouth and drop in the...

Court sessions drew him in the same way thunder attracts lightning. Simon Wells sat in the courtroom, barely noticeable among the public, his face resembling an emotionless mask. He was only interested in the details—witness testimonies, the lawyers' lines of thought, the mistakes that cost defendants their freedom. In every session, he took notes in his black notebook. Simon wasn’t an ordinary listener. He didn’t come out of curiosity. He studied every crack in the system, every loophole, every way one could evade punishment or, conversely, manipulate the law. He knew how words, intonations, and even pauses could either save a person or drown them. And he was preparing. Each session brought him closer to his goal. He studied court practices, analyzed the mistakes of criminals and investigators, choosing the perfect method. He needed a flawless strategy. All for one crime he intended to commit. The system had taken everything from him. Simon's father, Walter Wells, was an o...