Chapter 1: The White Worm

April 1st started off badly. The shift had been cut short — the company didn’t need couriers that day — so I left work much earlier than usual. Things felt off. Major outages were sweeping through Runet, banking apps were glitching. The chaos had spilled into public transport — I couldn’t validate my tram fare, even though I had an unlimited virtual pass purchased in advance.

Everything seemed in order — but it wasn’t. Misfortune, as usual, never comes alone. While I fiddled with my phone trying to troubleshoot, a pair of fare inspectors quietly approached.

— Ваш проездной, пожалуйста (Your travel pass, please), — said a woman with a notepad and a stern face.

— У меня виртуальная «Тройка» с безлимитом, но приложение не работает — у вас сбой в системе. Вот, посмотрите.
(I have a virtual Troika card with unlimited rides, but the app isn’t working — your system is down. Look here.)

I showed her my chat with Mosmetro’s support. The message clearly stated that the issue was acknowledged and would be resolved shortly. She and the two inspectors glanced at it.

— В таком случае вы обязаны были оплатить по банковской карте
(Then you were required to pay with a bank card) — she cut in.

— Я не обязан платить дважды за неработающий сервис. Вы продали мне проездной — ваша обязанность обеспечить его работу. Если он не работает — это ваша вина, не моя.
(I’m not obligated to pay twice for a broken service. You sold me the pass — it’s your responsibility to make it work. If it doesn’t, that’s on you, not me.)

— Мы вызовем полицию.
(We’ll call the police.)

She was already dialing. And then, without a word, the two male inspectors grabbed me — as if I were trying to escape.

The tram passed its final stop and halted near a service booth by the depot. We got off. I protested — they had no right to restrict my movement. That’s when it came — an insult like a slap to the face:

— Такой черножопой чурке стоило бы слушаться законов России, а не умничать.
(A black-assed chock like you should follow Russian laws instead of trying to be smart.)

Everything inside me boiled. A loud argument erupted. Soon a police car pulled up. Two officers stepped out. One of them, staying neutral, offered to “settle it on the spot” — if I admitted guilt and paid a 2,000-ruble fine.

But for me, this was no longer about money, it was about principle, and dignity. I refused.

At the station, something about the uniforms set me on edge — instead of the Russian flag on their sleeves, a few wore the white-black-yellow imperial one. The kind nationalists use. I asked one:

— Вам что, разрешено носить такой флаг вместо государственного?
(Are you allowed to wear that flag instead of the official one?)

— А почему нет?
(Why not?) — he answered, not even blinking.

An officer nicknamed “Sergio” approached. Judging by his look, he was just Sergei — but the nickname carried the kind of aggression he wasn’t bothering to hide. He clearly didn’t like me. Without hearing my side, he started writing something down.

Meanwhile, I overheard the inspectors on the phone:

— Да, у нас уже десять... оформляем и смену заканчиваем...
(Yeah, that’s our tenth one... wrapping up the shift...)

They were boasting. Business as usual.

Half an hour later, another officer came in — and finally decided to listen to both sides. I showed him an e-receipt for 1,950 rubles from my banking app, and the support chat where the malfunction was acknowledged. He nodded in agreement. The inspectors grew tense.

Another half hour passed. More officers showed up. They went down the hallway with holding cells and began re-interviewing people. After reviewing my case, they too took my side. The inspectors got visibly nervous. They disappeared behind the steel door of the duty area — I didn’t see them again.

I began to hope I’d be released any minute. Then a young policeman came up:

— Документы при себе?
(Have your documents on you?)

I patted my pockets.

— Чёрт… Кажется, оставил дома. Вчера стирал одежду — забыл переложить.
(Damn… I think I left them at home. I did laundry yesterday — must’ve forgotten.)

— Фото хотя бы есть?
(At least a photo?)

— Нет, увы.
(No, unfortunately.)

— Продиктуйте тогда фамилию, имя, отчество.
(Then give me your full name.)

He wrote it down and left. Came back with another officer and took me to the fingerprinting room. They took my prints. A mugshot. Just like in an American movie — minus the number plate.

More questioning followed. I explained where my documents were. They walked me down another corridor into the offices. Officers sat hunched over desks, flipping through paperwork.

The ones who brought me in sat me down and started working with some ancient computer. Something didn’t go right. One showed the screen to the other. Their faces changed.

— У вас запрет на въезд с февраля. Вы должны были покинуть страну.
(You’ve been banned from entry since February. You were supposed to leave.)

— Какой запрет? Почему я об этом ничего не знал?
(What ban? Why didn’t I know about this?)

— Вспоминайте…
(Think back…)

I tried to recall:

— Может, это после последнего визита сюда. Один из ваших сказал, что по указу №1126 от 30 декабря 2024 года, до 1 мая можно легализоваться без выезда. Я собирался подать документы в Сахарово или уехать до срока…
(Maybe it came after my last visit. One of your guys said that under Decree No. 1126 from December 30, 2024, I could legalize my stay before May 1, without leaving Russia. I was planning to go to Sakharovo or leave before the deadline…)

— Понятно.
(Understood.)

They took me back to the hallway. One of them, heading out, said quietly:

— Держись, дружище…
(Hang in there, buddy...)

I was tense. Why did he say that? Was it really that serious?

Soon another officer showed up — younger, with an unpleasant smirk. He opened a holding cell, motioned me in, and slammed the door shut.

It was clear: I wasn’t going home tonight. They searched me, removed my shoelaces and belt, and took my phone. And so I spent nearly 24 hours locked up — no food, no water, no toilet. They let me out once “to relieve myself” — in a disgusting place with no paper. And I needed it badly...

The cell had two raised concrete platforms. One had old, smelly mattresses. The other was bare. I chose the bare one. Laid down. The air stank of sewage. It was cold and damp. I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts kept racing. My stomach rumbled. I needed the toilet again.

I knocked, no answer. Just one guy passed by. I begged for food, or paper — at my own expense — denied. The pain got worse. Either from hunger, or from holding it in. Then I saw it — a white worm: small, fast, crawling across the floor. I watched it like a movie. It vanished into a crack.

Where did it come from? What does it eat? Could it crawl into my ear if I fall asleep? These thoughts, like counting sheep, calmed me.

Eventually, I dozed off.

***

When I woke up early — either from the stench or the noise in the corridor — I raised my head and saw through the barred door a group of shouting drunks just brought in. Further down stood others like me — apparently, another migrant roundup. People sat and stood in silence, waiting for at least some explanation. The cops paced back and forth, ignoring us.

The steel door kept clicking open and shut with its code lock — a grating metallic sound mixing with the sour air. My stomach twisted again — I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. The need for the toilet was becoming unbearable.

Through the window of a side room, I saw officers handing in and receiving weapons — a shift change. Once it was over, I decided to try again:

— Кто стучит? (Who’s knocking?) — asked a passing officer.

— Я тут…

(It’s me...)

— Чего надо?

(What do you want?)

— Со вчерашнего дня не ел, ни пил… в туалет очень хочется.
(Haven’t eaten or drunk anything since yesterday… I really need the toilet.)

— С последним помогу.

(I can help with the last.)

He opened the door and led me across the hallway — the toilet was right by the entrance. But the moment I stepped in, a wave of disgust hit me: it was clogged to the brim, stagnant water almost spilling over.

— Там всё плохо.

(It’s bad there.)

— Что?

(What?)

— Засор.

(It’s clogged.)

— Ну, тут ничем не помогу. (Can’t help you.) — he shrugged and brought me back.

I had barely sat down when the lock clicked again. Another officer entered and pulled me out. They sat me in a chair across from a bearded man in civilian clothes — I recognized him. He’d once processed my patent renewal. Now he had a stack of papers in front of him.

— Быстрее! (Faster!) — he snapped.

— Я не ел почти сутки… Хотел бы сначала ознакомиться.
(I haven’t eaten in almost a day… I’d like to read it first.)

— Что ж вы его не кормили? (Why didn’t you feed him?) — he sneered at a colleague, pretending to be concerned.

I remembered my nephew’s story — he’d been detained too, but was released after lunch and 40,000 rubles. Here was a mountain of paperwork. I smelled something shady.

— Может, договоримся, командир? Есть другой выход?
(Can we settle this, boss? Is there another way?)

— Не заёбывай. Быстро!

(Don’t piss me off. Hurry up!)

First time I’d seen a cop refuse a bribe. Or maybe he was afraid of cameras.

— Почему так много бумаг?

(Why so many papers?)

— Тут всё: выдворение, нарушение режима, отсутствие документов. Всё — в двух экземплярах.
(Everything’s here: deportation, status violation, no ID. All in two copies.)

— Я не знал, что выдворен. В феврале меня забрали из квартиры, выписали штраф 5 тысяч и сказали, что по указу №1126 от 30 декабря 2024 года у меня до 30 апреля есть срок легализоваться. Я собирался купить билет и уехать.
(I didn’t know I’d been deported. In February they took me from my apartment, fined me 5,000, and said that under Decree No. 1126 from December 30, 2024, I had until April 30 to legalize my status. I planned to buy a ticket and leave.)

— Не успел. Запрет с февраля.

(Didn’t make it. The ban's been active since February.)

— А это что за обвинение? «Мелкое хулиганство»?
(And this — ‘petty hooliganism’? What’s that?)

— Про конфликт с полицией. Штраф 500 рублей. Есть свидетель.
(About your clash with the officers. Just a 500-ruble fine. There's a witness.)

— Конечно, свой подтвердит. Но были и сторонние — снимали на видео. Я хочу подать жалобу: меня незаконно ограничивали в передвижении.
(Of course your guy will back you up. But there were others — filming everything. I want to file a complaint. I was unlawfully detained.)

— Жалоба? Тебе бы сначала выйти отсюда!

(Complaint? You should worry about getting out of here first!)

— Извините, я не могу подписать.

(Sorry, I can’t sign this.)

— Себе хуже делаешь.

(You’re making it worse for yourself.)

He called over another officer, handed him something to sign, collected the papers and left. I was sent back to the stinking cell.

I began thinking: how to talk to these people, how to get through... But then the bearded man returned. They brought me out again — a new stack of documents. This time, no hooliganism charge. I skimmed through and signed. Just hoped I wasn’t signing away my rights — or some “voluntary” army contract.

They searched me again, took my laces, confiscated everything of value: two phones, a card, 100 rubles — all sealed in a clear plastic envelope.

Then a heavyset woman joined us. Together we walked toward a door marked “SIZO.” An officer from the Federal Penitentiary Service met us. Inside, we entered the warden’s office. I sat on a small chair by the wall.

— Вам ещё не разрешали садиться,
(You haven’t been allowed to sit yet,) — he said coldly.

— Извините.

(Sorry.)

Only then did I fully realize — this place had a real detention facility. I wasn’t just being held. I was going to jail.

The woman and the bearded man left. The intake began.

— Можно позвонить?

(Can I make a call?)

— Конечно, вот телефон. 15 минут.

(Of course, here’s a phone. Fifteen minutes.)

I called my wife and kids via WhatsApp — no answer. Then I called my younger brother:

— Это я… Слушай, я в тюрьме…
(It’s me… Listen, I’m in jail…)

— Это не тюрьма, (It’s not jail,) — the officer corrected coldly.

— Позвони в посольство… Сделай что-нибудь…
(Call the embassy… Do something…)

They took the phone away after just two minutes. So much for fifteen.

After intake, the warden handed me slippers and offered a book. I grabbed the nearest one — I couldn’t focus anyway.

— Я сутки не ел, не пил… и в туалет хочу.
(I haven’t eaten or drunk for a full day… and I need the toilet.)

— Сейчас накормят.

(They’ll feed you soon.)

— Сколько я тут пробуду?

(How long will I be here?)

— Один-два дня, потом переведут. Больше сказать не могу.
(One or two days, then they’ll transfer you. I can’t say more.)

They led me through a long corridor of cells. I was handed a set of linens. The door slammed shut behind me.

The cell was better than the monkey cage — but still dreadful. Cold, bare. Four beds, a small table, a sink, a barred window. In the corner — a toilet behind a half-wall. No door. I didn’t care. I went straight there.

I sat on the bed. On the opposite bunk was a young Uzbek man with a black beard — Abdukareem, from Andijan.

— Сколько ты здесь?

(How long have you been here?)

— Второй день. Я видел тебя вчера.

(Second day. I saw you yesterday.)

— Ака, ўзбекмисиз?

(Brother, are you Uzbek?)

— Ўзбекчани биламан.

(I know Uzbek.)

— Хайрият-ей! Сизга айтишдими, қачон кетишимизни? Менга уч кунда дейишди.
(Thank God! Did they say when we’ll be moved? They told me three days.)

— Бир-икки кун дейишди.

(They told me one or two.)

He held a book.

— Китоб нима ҳақида экан?

(What’s it about?)

— Билмайман… Ҳозир каллага ҳеч нима кирмаяпти.
(No idea… Nothing’s going into my head right now.)

He was right, I couldn’t focus either. My thoughts were all about the same thing: how to get out… What would happen to my family? I was the only provider. The stench of yesterday’s cell still clung to me.

Suddenly, someone slid food and hot water through the small window in the door. For the first time in a long while, I felt almost human again.

***

That night I couldn’t sleep. My mind was clogged with restless thoughts. The events of the past two days looped endlessly, like a jammed film reel. Still, I must’ve blacked out for a couple of hours — which was already a small miracle in this place.

I was awakened by heavy footsteps, sharp pacing in the corridor, voices from neighboring cells — and most of all, the sound of someone crying. Long, piercing sobs, filled with despair. The kind of crying that comes only when something inside has broken. It went on for hours. Abdukareem and I exchanged glances. Maybe someone was being beaten. Maybe their spirit had simply cracked. Here, that’s easy. Everything breaks — first and foremost, the human.

To keep my mind from slipping, and my body from collapsing, I forced myself into routine: a short workout. Same one I used to do when I was free: quick warm-up, twenty crunches, twenty leg lifts, forty push-ups, twenty squats, another round of crunches and lifts. Then shadowboxing, stretching. All of it — in a three-by-four-meter cell, between an iron bunk and a foul-smelling toilet.

I could feel Abdukareem watching me. I didn’t care. In here, staying alive meant staying strong — physically and mentally.

When I finished, we spoke briefly about the weeping. But before we could say much, the flap in the door opened — breakfast: watery porridge, two slices of white bread, boiling water. All in worn, blackened aluminum dishes. Just like in a prison. No — not “like.”, it WAS prison.

The guards had said this block once held criminals. Now it has been reassigned. Migrants only. A forgotten corridor turned into a temporary holding pen.

The meal only reminded my stomach that it still hadn’t been fed properly. Afterward, we began talking about freedom. Abdukareem told me how he’d ended up here: a police car tailed him all the way to the Pyaterochka store where he worked as a courier. He stayed inside, hoping they’d leave. But the moment he stepped out — they grabbed him. Same way they got me. Now we shared a cell, a toilet, a fate.

The floor here was polished to a shine. At first glance, it seemed neat and even well-maintained, but the moment one walked barefoot or in prison slippers, the danger became clear: one could slip, fall, and crash against the iron beds. We exchanged glances, as if each of us was thinking the same thing, yet no one said it aloud. What was the purpose of such a floor? In prison, things are rarely done for beauty or comfort.

Abdukareem, sitting at the dining table, broke away from his thoughts and said:

— Эшитишим бўйича, атайин шундай қилишади. Қошиқларни тезлаб, улардан пичоқ ясамаслик учун.

(I heard they do it on purpose. So that spoons cannot be sharpened and turned into knives.)

There was logic in that. We imagined how a simple aluminum spoon could be turned into a weapon, and it gave us an uneasy feeling. Even in this seemingly harmless shine of the floor lay the fear of the administration: any contact of metal with a hard surface was a potential threat. We sat there in silence, while in our minds the thought kept circling: here, everything was arranged not only so that a man could not escape, but so that he could not even defend himself.

The iron door creaked. The detention center chief walked in — the same one from yesterday. Two guards followed. Without a word, he placed a stack of papers on the metal table bolted to the floor, near the toilet.

— Вчера мы кое-что упустили. Надо бы закончить, пока я не сдал смену.
(We missed something yesterday. Let’s finish before I hand over my shift.)

— А что это?
(What is it?)

— Да те же бумаги, только в нескольких экземплярах. Всё сделаем правильно — тебе же проще будет. Дело быстрее пойдёт.
(Same forms, just more copies. It’s better this way — faster for you too.)

— Я хотел бы их прочитать перед тем, как подписывать.
(I’d like to read them before signing.)

— Только давай побыстрей, я сутки не спал.
(Just hurry up. I haven’t slept in 24 hours.)

— Хорошо.
(Alright.)

I skimmed through. It looked identical to what I signed yesterday. Most importantly — no “hooliganism” charge, no mention of “contract with the Ministry of Defense.” That was all I needed.

— Молодец, (Good job,) — he muttered, scooped up the documents, and left with the guards.

— Бу нима эди? (What was that?) — Abdukareem asked cautiously.

— Ҳеч нима, расмиятчилик…
(Nothing. Just paperwork…)

He clearly wanted to ask more, but hesitated. I saw it in his face.

— Бир нима сўрамоқчимисан?
(Did you want to ask something?)

— Ака, узр… ҳожатга бормоқчи эдим, лекин малол келяпти-да. Битта хонада ҳам овқат еб, ҳам ҳожат чиқариш ғалати бўларкан…
(Brother, sorry… I wanted to use the toilet, but I felt uncomfortable. Eating and relieving yourself in the same room — it’s just wrong…)

— Бемалол, ука. Фараз қил, ман йўқман. Нима қиламиз энди — шундай бўлиб қолди. Ўзимам ҳожатхонага кирмоқчи бўлиб турувдим. Сандан кейин кираман.
(Go ahead, brother. Just pretend I’m not here. What else can we do? It’s how it is. I was going to go after you anyway.)

Truly, there was something deeply degrading about it — relieving yourself in a corner barely screened by a meter-high partition. No door. No ceiling. Everything in full view. And during meals, the stench was unbearable. This wasn’t prison — it was mockery.

To distract myself, I picked up the book I’d gotten from the local “library.” Reading was hard. Concentration — harder still. I had to reread some lines twice.

The story: a man wakes up on a spaceship with no memory. Around him — others, also amnesiacs. They’re told they’re colonists. But when they land, the truth emerges: they were criminals on Earth, sentenced to death. This was exile. The new world was a labor colony. They were peons — slaves with no rights or future. Anyone who disobeyed could be legally executed. Some tried. They were gunned down, and the main character survives. He kills his pursuer. Inherits his place in the hierarchy. The cost — blood.

I read a few dozen pages, then put it down. It felt too real, too close. Who placed this book here? Was it a joke? Or a warning?

I listened: the crying had stopped. Either the man had run out of tears — or they’d “calmed” him in some other way. My thoughts chased each other in tight, dark circles. Eventually, I blacked out. Probably fell asleep.

***

I still didn’t know who it was, but those soft, drawn-out sobs crept under my skin, dragging me toward depression. We knocked, a guard opened the small hatch, glanced inside. We asked who was crying last night — no answer. The hatch slammed shut.

After the so-called breakfast, we were led into the corridor. Others were already lined up — faces to the wall, silent. Once everyone was out, a command was barked: walk in a line, right hand on the shoulder of the person in front. About twelve of us. At the guards’ signal, we left the police station and stepped outside.

A van was waiting — blue, armored, flanked by patrol cars with flashing lights. We climbed in, under the stares and smartphones of passersby. It was humiliating — like we were convicts. And yet the world outside looked just the same as the day I’d been arrested. Same gray sky. Same cold wind. Nothing had changed.

Inside the van — a metal box no larger than three by three meters. I don’t know how they packed all twelve of us in. Behind the grated front door sat three men in body armor — the driver and two escorts. The van started moving. They were taking us to Sakharovo — a temporary detention center for foreigners awaiting deportation. A flicker of hope passed through me. Maybe this was the end. Maybe.

The ride was suffocating, the van clearly wasn’t meant for so many bodies. The air turned stale. Some tried to lighten the mood with dark jokes. Two stood out: a burly Uzbek and a skinny, twitchy Kyrgyz guy with the mannerisms of a petty criminal. He bragged about his time in prison, how he’d lived stateless for years without documents. Nobody cared. Everyone was in their own private hell.

The worst-smelling of all was a young Moldovan. A sharp, sour stench radiated from him — people around him pinched their noses. Abdukareem had the misfortune of being seated beside him.

I sat next to a plump woman, maybe forty. She didn’t fit the setting — not by presence, not by aura. Her eyes were red. She had cried a lot. And when she spoke, the whole van fell silent.

— Хоразмданман. Уч ёшли болам қолиб кетди, мени бу ерга қамаб қўйишди...
(I’m from Khorezm. My child is only three… they locked me up here...)

Her voice was familiar. It clicked — she was the one who’d been crying every morning.

— Йиғлаган сиз эдингизми?
(Was that you crying?)

— Ҳа, тинмай йиғладим...
(Yes, I cried non-stop...)

— Қандай қилиб бу ерга тушдингиз?
(How did you end up here?)

— Квартирадан болам билан чиқдим, пастда бир рус турган экан. Унга «здравствуйте» деб икки қадам юриб, боламга ўзбекча бир нима деганимни биламан, ўша одам олдимга келиб, ҳужжатимни сўради, кейин бу ерга олиб келишди. Милиса экан.
(I left my apartment with my child. A Russian man was standing outside. I said ‘hello’ to him and said something to my son in Uzbek. The man came over, asked for my papers, and brought me here. It turned out he was a cop.)

We were stunned. A mother, walking with her child — a national threat?

People started offering advice — how to contact social services, how to get her son back. We discussed laws, food, and the looming deportation. Nobody noticed when the van pulled into a new compound.

A yellow three-story building, grim as everything else. Outside, other foreigners were already being loaded onto a tourist bus. The lucky ones — headed to the airport.

We sat locked in the van for almost an hour. The air ran out. I began to panic — a real episode. Chest tight, vision narrowing. A claustrophobic crush, like the walls were closing in. Someone knocked. People shouted, begging for the door to be opened. I was sure — a few more minutes and I’d die.

Finally, the door creaked open a few inches. Air slipped in. I gasped.

Eventually, the tourist bus rolled out. Our van moved forward. We were led inside. The woman was taken elsewhere. The rest of us were herded into a large holding room.

Compared to the van, it was heaven. People stretched, lit cigarettes (where from?), wandered over to a real toilet. Some chatted. I walked the walls, reading the graffiti:

Bishkek 2024

Qarshi

Ganja

Yerevan

Fergana 2025

A museum of despair.

Then the shouting began. Camouflage uniforms entered, barking orders. They herded us into another room — one by one. Behind the desks: pale faces, emotionless. They dumped our phones, bank cards, and cash into clear folders. Then demanded our SIM cards.

— Why? Will you return the phones? I asked, foolishly.

— Yeah, sure. The SIM card’s for your call later.

— But all my contacts are in the phone, not the SIM. Can I just...

— I’m sick of your shit! Sign and get the fuck out!

— And why didn't you put my thermos next to the other things? It's an expensive thermos.

— You'll get your thermos when you leave, get out of here.

I signed the inventory. They took my photo, fingerprints. Moved me to a new room.

Inside — cold, iron bunks with no mattresses. Eighteen-person capacity. A toilet in the corner. I never used it once. At first, there were only a few of us. The woman and half the group vanished.

Then someone new entered — cheerful, bearded. Handed out pieces of chocolate. God knows how he smuggled it in. A dark-skinned guy with an earring came next. Then five Indian men. They looked terrified.

I approached.

— Do you speak English?

— Thanks God, someone knows English! — the one with the earring lit up.

— What’s your name?

— I’m Kanná.

— I’m Bobby, said another, chubby one.

— I’m Dilshod, from Samarkand. Where are you from?

— Delhi.

— Sri Lanka, — Kanná added.

— Why don’t the others talk? I asked, nodding toward the rest.

— They don’t know English, bro, said Bobby.

As we chatted, a guy walked in holding four packs of Doshirak — instant noodles. But there was no boiling water. They crunched them dry. I shared my bread with the newcomers. I didn’t touch the noodles.

Later, people got thirsty. A tall Tajik stood and knocked on the door.

— Кто, блядь, стучит?
(Who the fuck is knocking?)

— Я!
(Me!)

— Сюда стучать можно только если кто-то умирает!
(You knock here only if someone’s dying!)

— Мы пить хотим!
(We want water!)

— Пей из туалета!
(Drink from the toilet!)

— Сначала сам пей, потом мы!
(You drink first, then we will!)

— Сюда иди, сука…
(Get over here, bitch...)

They dragged him out, roughly. The room fell silent.

Someone whispered about resisting, but the silence swallowed it. We were all thinking the same thing:
What comes next? Do people die here?

It got colder. We huddled near a radiator, taking turns. We looked like birds in a coop.

Late at night, when most were asleep, the door creaked open again. The Tajik returned. Smiling.

— Туро заданд он ҷо?
(Did they beat you there?)

— Не, дар як хонаи торик се-чор кас шиштем.
(No, we just sat in a dark room, three or four of us.)

An intimidation tactic, a signal. Know your place.