⊱★⊰˙ 𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇 ☆ 𝐊𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 ˙⊱★⊰

Dietrich Krause didn’t have a childhood. Or rather, he did, but it was the kind of childhood that others would call a nightmare if it weren’t so banal for him. He was born in a filthy apartment in the most run-down part of Hamburg, and the first smell he breathed was that of misery. The smell that stinked up the moldy walls was a mix of rot, dust, and sweat. His mother, a woman who had been destroyed by life, was almost always drugged, groggy, and with a lost look in her eyes. Sometimes, when Dietrich was still a baby, she would leave him alone for hours, crying nonstop, his throat dry from screaming. But she didn’t care. She was too busy looking for her next fix. When she went out, the sounds of the street were all he had—horns, footsteps, shouts from other buildings. And when she came back, she came back exhausted, without the strength to even look at him. Only moans, doors slamming, men laughing loudly. He huddled in a corner of the old mattress, trembling, scared, hungry, not knowing why this was happening.

At two years old, Dietrich still cried. He cried a lot. He didn't understand why his mother wouldn't hold him, why the room was so dark, why his stomach hurt so much. He chewed on pieces of cloth, licked his dirty fingers, tried to sleep to forget. The men who passed by the house looked at him as if he were trash. Some made fun of him. Others just ignored him as if he didn't even exist. And his mother... his mother sometimes yelled, called him a curse, a curse, said he was the fucking mistake of her life. And he just wanted her to see him. To say one word other than "shut up." But she didn't come. She never came.

Some women came with the guys, always dirty, laughing too loudly, tripping over furniture. One of them once grabbed Dietrich's arm tightly and said he "had the same disgusting eyes as his mother." He didn't understand. He just cried. He cowered. He always cowered. His body small, trembling, like a rat trapped in a cage. He didn't know what affectio

Não sabia o que era segurança. Sabia apenas que o mundo era um lugar onde ninguém queria ele por perto.

He just knew that the world was a place where no one wanted him around.

At four years old, hunger was a constant nightmare. His mother could barely get out of bed. She stank. The house stank. Dietrich rummaged through bags, trying to eat moldy bread crusts, cold remains of something forgotten. Once, a man threw a piece of food on the floor and said, “Eat it, you piece of shit.” He picked it up. He ate it. With tears streaming down his face. Because fear was greater than shame.

There was a broken window in the room. Dietrich sat there, staring out at the street with eyes full of doubt. Did all the other children live like this? Would anyone come for him? Would anyone ever want him? But no one did. Never. And he felt smaller and smaller.

One day his mother disappeared for three days. He was alone. Three whole days. He shivered from the cold, cried until he threw up, tried to open doors but couldn't reach them. He peed on the floor. Then he curled up in a corner and remained silent. On the third day, he thought he was going to die. But he didn't. When his mother came back, stumbling and mumbling things he didn't understand, he just reached out his hand, weakly, waiting for a touch, any touch. But she just passed through him as if she were air.

And then, at some point, she left him alone with a strange man. The guy had a strange smile, and his eyes were all wrong. Dietrich didn't know what it was, he just felt fear in his body, butterflies in his stomach, something horrible. When the man got close, he tried to run away. He tried to scream. He tried to push. But he was weak. The guy laughed. He said he was pathetic. That he wasn't even fit to cry. And he cried anyway. Desperately. Until his body hurt.

When his mother came back, she saw the man leaving with his scarred face, laughing to himself. She looked at Dietrich with empty eyes. And he thought—just for a second—that she was going to hug him. But she just lit a cigarette and said, “You can handle it. It’s not made of glass.” He huddled in the corner, crying softly, hating himself for being there, not understanding anything, not knowing what he did to deserve to be born in that shithole.

At the age of five, Dietrich Krause was already cracked inside. But still, there was a part of him—a stupid, childish, stubborn part—that insisted on believing that things could get better. After so many nights on the cold floor, listening to the indecent noises from the next room, after so many days without decent food, living off stolen crumbs or scraps left out of mockery, he still hoped for something. Anything. A gesture. A caress. A miracle. Something that would give meaning to that miserable existence. This withered hope was what made him get out of bed every morning, even when his stomach was twisting with hunger and the urine had dried in his pants because no one cared enough to show him where to pee. He was a little zombie waiting for salvation.

His mother was getting more and more fucked up. Her face was a skull covered in yellowish skin, covered in scabs and sores. She barely spoke to him. She only screamed, cursed, and spat. It was pure hatred, a hatred that seemed to overflow from within her like an eternal vomit. She complained about him as if he were a plague, a worm, a living reminder of the mistake she made when she was 16. She didn't call him by his name. Sometimes she would call him “fucking brat,” other times just “son of a bitch.” And when she wasn't screaming, she was passed out, drooling on the dirty mattress, with a syringe stuck in her arm or her nose covered in powder.

And then, one day, in the midst of the usual rot, she called Dietrich in a soft voice. It was so out of character that he stopped. He froze. She asked him to come out. She said they were going for a walk in the square. He didn’t know what a square was, not the way other children did, but he had seen it through the window of the van of one of the men his mother drove home. Trees, benches, children running around. Just thinking about it made his heart ache. Maybe, maybe she wanted to be a mother. Maybe she had remembered that he really existed. He was happy. For the first time in months, he smiled. A crooked, shy, insecure smile, but genuine.

They walked through narrow streets, Dietrich trying to keep up with her hurried pace. He didn’t even notice the path. He didn’t even care about the stench of sewage or the rats crossing the alleys. He only thought about the park. The greenery. What was to come. Until she turned into a narrow, dark, filthy alley. He hesitated. He asked: “Is the square this way?” She didn’t answer. She just followed. He followed.

At the end of the alley, three men were leaning against the wall, smoking and laughing. Their eyes were rotten. Their teeth were missing. They smelled of alcohol, sweat, and malice. The mother stopped and pushed Dietrich forward, as if he were a garbage bag she had been carrying around for no reason. She simply said, “It’s paid for.” One of the men threw something at her—a dirty plastic bag, with the dust of destruction inside—and she disappeared without looking back. She disappeared as if nothing had happened. As if it were just another ordinary day.

Dietrich didn't understand at first. It took him a few minutes to realize what that meant. The men approached him slowly, saying things he didn't understand, but their tone was disgusting. It was disgusting. And fear, true fear, set in. He tried to run, scream, bite. But he was just a skinny five-year-old kid. He was easily immobilized. And what came next can't be described in normal words. It wasn't pain. It was erasure. It was as if they were tearing pieces of him off, one by one, and throwing them in the trash.

They kept him locked in a filthy, damp, cockroach-infested basement. He would only eat when he obeyed. If he talked too much, he would get beaten. If he cried, it would get worse. He was fed like a dog—sometimes literally. They would throw scraps on the floor and make him lick them up. They used him. They used him. Without mercy, without guilt, without haste. They alternated between beatings, rapes, and long periods of enforced silence, where all he could hear was the dripping of water and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Each step was a warning that it would happen again. Again. And again.

At six, he no longer spoke. He became mute. Almost deaf. His senses had shut down. He was just a shell waiting for the next shit session. He no longer cried. He no longer resisted. He had become a survival machine. An automatic body. A zombie.

At the age of 7, Dietrich was finally discarded like an old rag. After years of being held captive and used by these men, they simply threw him out onto the street, as if he were nothing. His body was dirty, bruised, and he was wearing only an old shirt that dragged on the ground—too big, but it was all he had.

Aimless, nameless, and without anyone. The city didn't notice his presence. He was just another kid forgotten in the depths of gray Germany, where no one asks where you came from. Since then, he has been surviving on the streets.

From 7 to 8, Dietrich became an animal. He slept among cardboard boxes and garbage bags, and huddled in stinking alleys where rats kept him company. He learned quickly: begging didn't work. Whining only worked when he had the right audience. Over time, he developed tricks—he threw himself on the floor pretending to faint, cried in front of old women at bus stops, hugged strangers' legs and said he was lost. He earned bread, coins, old coats.

He began to steal. Small, fast, invisible. He stole fruit from markets, cigarettes from stalls, scraps from distractions. One day, he was almost beaten up by a man who caught him trying to pull a note from his pocket. He escaped with a split lip. After that, he began to observe before acting.

There was one time he hid inside a supermarket and waited for it to close. He took out a bag of rice, a bottle of juice and a knife. He almost choked to death eating raw food.

He bathed in public fountains and stole soap from gas station bathrooms. He learned to clean himself with wet newspaper.

He also discovered the power of the gaze. He learned to make his eyes twitch on purpose, his voice crack just the right amount. He used the image of the broken little boy to get what he needed. I had no pride, just hunger.

The cold was worse. During the winter, he even tried sleeping inside a laundromat. He was kicked out by an angry owner. He began to sleep wrapped in black garbage bags, trying to keep his body warm with newspaper and plastic bags inside his shirt.

At that time, it was common to see dried blood on their hands, skinned knees, and sunken eyes. But he didn't really cry anymore. Only when it was useful.

Dietrich, at age 9, almost died again.

It was late afternoon, the sky covered by heavy clouds. The city looked even more rotten and dirty that day. Dietrich, thin, dirty, wearing the same large blouse that covered his knees, wandered through a more remote neighborhood. He was trying to steal bread from a stall, but the owner had noticed. He ran through the streets, dodging people, crashing into trash cans, until he turned the wrong corner and bumped into someone worse than hungry.

The man grabbed him by the arm tightly. He threw a punch. Other. Dietrich fell to the ground, dizzy, and the guy started dragging him to a corner. He only stopped because Dietrich bit, kicked, kicked and managed to escape — with a black eye and a bleeding mouth. The bastard went after him. Dietrich jumped over a high rusty iron wall and threw himself over the other side, landing on top of some old boxes. And that's when everything changed.

Before he could even get up, he was grabbed by a strong arm. A man roughly pulled him into a shed and locked the door behind him.

Dietrich stood there, trembling, thinking it was just another nightmare. But when he looked, he saw an old man. A real old man. With a look that looked like he had been through war. Cold. Rigid. His face was scarred, his hair was gray, and his body was broad, covered in clean overalls that were zipped up to the neck. He smelled of motor oil and unlit cigarettes.

— What the hell are you doing here? — was the first thing he said, with a thick Russian accent.

Dietrich apologized immediately, trying to leave, begging for forgiveness, shaking all over. But the old man just looked. A silent, assessing look, as if he were deciding whether to break the boy or not.

— Stay. — he said finally. — You smell of blood and fear. You'll scare my cars away.

The shop was unlike anything Dietrich had ever seen. Clean. Extremely organized. Every tool hung in its right place, labeled. The cement floor was polished. Not a single piece of equipment was out of place. It all looked like a military base. Downstairs, there were at least five cars—racing cars, armored cars, souped-up cars, undercover cars, most of them with fake license plates. One was a matte black, hand-painted. Another was silver with an open engine. All expensive. All professional.

And that was what made Dietrich wonder: How the hell did this old man make his money? He didn't seem to be serving regular customers. There was no sign out front. No advertising. Nothing.

The upper floor was another surprise: it had an impeccably made military bed, a small but clean bathroom, a functional kitchen and a small area with a wooden table and several folders and papers piled up. It looked more like a bunker than a house.

Mikhail was not kind. But he didn't kick the boy out. She threw a towel into his hand and pointed to the bathroom. Then he placed a plate with soup and bread on the table. He sat down, crossed his arms and just watched.

— Eat slowly. Vomiting will dirty my floor. - he said.

That night, Dietrich slept with a clean blanket, a full belly, without fear. He didn't know why, but Mikhail had let him stay. And in the following days, he returned. Not all of them — but I would come back. And every time he returned, the old man seemed to get more used to his presence, even if he never really smiled. Only sometimes, when Dietrich cracked a really rotten joke, he would make a half-“hnf” sound through his nose and turn his face away. It was almost a smile.

Mikhail never showed affection, never asked about the boy's past, but he gave him shelter, taught him how to use tools and demanded obedience. It was like living with a war dog. But Dietrich... finally had a corner.

And it was a beginning.

Dietrich kept going to Mikhail's shed. At first, it wasn't something certain, there was no set routine. The old man seemed to like the idea of ​​having him there, but always with the distance of someone who didn't want to get attached to anyone. But Dietrich, on the contrary, was slowly giving in to the shelter that Mikhail provided. The food, the bed, the safety... It was all new. Something he had never imagined existed for someone like him.

For the first few days, Mikhail watched the boy without asking too many questions, but he knew he couldn’t leave it up in the air for too long. Dietrich clearly had stories that Mikhail needed to hear, and the old man knew that if he was to continue to welcome this boy, he needed to understand what had shaped him that way.

It was on one of these days, while Dietrich was sneaking between the cars in the workshop, that Mikhail called him for a chat.

— You… never told me how you ended up on the street. — Mikhail said, with his cold manner, but with a slight tension in his words. He looked at the boy closely, as if he would analyze every word that came out of his mouth. — And those injuries? How did you get them? Are you going to tell me you fell again? — Mikhail looked at Dietrich’s scars, the visible marks that the boy had on his body, some still fresh.

Dietrich hesitated, but he knew he could no longer lie. His voice was hoarse, but without the fear that had consumed him before.

“My parents… I don’t know. I was about five when they left me. My mom… sold me to some guys. She… she left me.” Dietrich swallowed the lump in his throat. He never talked about it. Never. But Mikhail, with that impassive look, made him talk. “After that, I lived on the streets. I stole for food, I begged, and these…” he pointed to the cuts on his hands and the marks on his neck “were from when I tried to escape.”

Mikhail stood silently, watching the boy. He didn’t ask any difficult questions, didn’t press him. Dietrich felt that the old man wasn’t there to judge him, but to understand. After a few minutes, Mikhail simply nodded, as if he had received the answer he had been waiting for.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Mikhail asked. Dietrich looked at the ground, confused. The old man didn’t just want to know about his past, he wanted to know if he had a future. Dietrich didn’t know how to answer. He had no idea what it meant to have a future. All he knew was survival, running from people, hiding, and, when possible, stealing.

Mikhail sighed, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Then he stood up and walked over to a drawer. He opened it and took something out. Dietrich couldn’t see it clearly, but when the old man approached, he held out a piece of paper.

“You’re going to school,” Mikhail said directly, without question. “I don’t know what you learned on the streets, but you’re going to learn to live differently. Here, the only thing you have to do is learn.”

Dietrich stood there, surprised. Mikhail looked at him with unusual patience, but did not give in.

— I didn't have school, or education. But you will. It won't be easy, I know. But if you want something beyond all this shit, you have to start learning. Here, you'll have food, you'll have shelter, and you'll have a future if you want it.

Dietrich didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to react. All he knew was that something had changed. He was faced with someone who not only wanted to help him, but who believed he still had a future.

Old Mikhail became the first real “caretaker” Dietrich had in his life. He was strict, not soft-spoken, but somehow he made the boy feel welcomed. Dietrich had never seen a school before, had never heard of classes, books, or any kind of education. Life on the streets didn’t allow for that. But Mikhail insisted on getting him into school. It wasn’t easy. Dietrich could barely read properly, writing was something completely new to him, and math seemed like a nightmare. But every day Mikhail was there, unmoved by complaints, urging the boy to study harder, to do his best.

In the first few months, Mikhail would often ask Dietrich to read aloud to him. Dietrich would make mistakes, but Mikhail would patiently correct him.

— You're not supposed to make mistakes. You're supposed to learn. If you don't learn, you'll lose the chance to improve.

Mikhail didn't make promises that everything would be okay, nor did he talk about things that could be better. He talked about effort, commitment, and understanding that the world would not be kind to Dietrich, but if he wanted to, it could be better. He made the boy understand that nothing would be given for free. That the future was something to be built, and not a reward for suffering.

Dietrich began to study harder. Mikhail wouldn’t let him stray from his focus. And deep down, Dietrich felt that maybe the old man was right. If he could just apply himself, maybe something better could come. Something beyond survival, beyond being a shadow on the streets.

And so, for the first time in his life, Dietrich felt like he was learning something worthwhile. He began to see a future for himself, a future he had never imagined. And all of this, somehow, was made possible by old Mikhail, who, without saying much, was giving him the chance to be more than just a lost child on the streets.

This chance would become the foundation of everything Dietrich would try to achieve from then on.

By the age of 10, Dietrich and Mikhail’s relationship had completely changed. What had started as a temporary shelter had turned into a bond. It hadn’t happened overnight. Mikhail never said it out loud, but the way he cared for the boy made it clear: Dietrich was his son now.

The old man started picking him up from school, always at the same time, leaning against the black car, his arm out the window, his face grim. Sometimes he would bring him a snack in one of those metal lunch boxes, filled with bread, juice and sliced ​​apples — all simple, but made by someone who cared. Mikhail didn't know how to show affection with words. He never said "I love you" or hugged. But he cared in every gesture. He listened to the boy when he needed it, helped with his homework in his own clumsy way, and when Dietrich fell asleep, the old man would even go upstairs to check if he had tucked him in properly.

He let Dietrich play in the street, run around, play ball with the other kids on the block. But he had one clear rule: no confusion. And when Dietrich got into a fight, Mikhail would first ask what happened. If the boy was right—if he was provoked, if he was a victim—the old man was sure to go after him. There was a time when he appeared at the school gates, with a stern look on his face, staring at the father of another boy who had tried to humiliate Dietrich. He resolved everything with just a few words, but with enough presence that no one would try again.

But if Dietrich had been wrong, if he had been arrogant or violent for no reason, Mikhail would not let him off the hook. I corrected it. It didn't beat. He didn't scream. But it made it clear that there was responsibility involved. It said:

— In here, you learn to be better than these pieces of shit. If you want to be just another idiot on the street, the door is there. But if you want to live right, you will listen to me.

And Dietrich listened. Even if he gets angry sometimes, even if he crosses his arms and turns his face away. Because deep down, he knew: Mikhail was doing what no one had ever done before. I was teaching. I was staying. And more than anything… I was caring.

At 11, Dietrich had already adapted better to the school routine. In the beginning it was still difficult — he had no foundation, he got the basics wrong, he was slow at math, he wrote incorrectly. But the difference now was that he was no longer alone. Mikhail made a point of sitting with him at night, even when he was tired from the workshop, to review his notebook, correct his handwriting, and scold him when necessary. Sometimes I would drop a ruler on the table and say:

— Did you get this wrong again? Are you asking to repeat the year, damn it?

But then he would smile, hand over the pencil, and wait for Dietrich to try again. The old man’s discipline, even without explicit affection, paid off. And the boy began to excel at things that required attention and logic — especially mathematics and mechanics. Mikhail would always say that “the kid had a head for machines.”

With his peers, it was more complicated. Dietrich wasn't exactly the most social. He had a somewhat reserved, suspicious manner. He was the type who preferred to observe before joining in. Sometimes he would isolate himself for days. But over time, he formed a small group of peers. Nothing special—two or three boys who respected him more for his demeanor than his words. He wasn't the funniest, nor the most popular, but no one bothered him either.

It was during this phase that his childhood crush appeared. A girl from his class, dark hair, easy to laugh, and a simple name — Elisa. Dietrich began to get a little spacey when she spoke, blushed when she sat near him, tried to fix his hair with his hand before entering the room. And of course, Mikhail noticed.

When Dietrich came home from school one day, quieter than usual, Mikhail put down the screwdriver and blurted out:

— So? Did the girl smile at you again?

Dietrich turned red up to his ears. He muttered "nothing to do with it," but the old man didn't forgive him. He made fun of him every chance he got. He even prepared a snack with a fake note written "for Elisa" on it, just to see the boy's face. Or he would say:

— Go on, little Romeo. Take this apple to your Juliet.

It was all in good fun, no malice intended. Just Mikhail's crooked way of showing that he was paying attention. And deep down, Dietrich even liked it. Because no one had ever laughed with him before. Much less at something as silly as liking a girl.

At age 12, Dietrich began to notice that something was very wrong—or at least different. First, it was his clothes. Shirts that had previously been loose-fitting began to pinch at the shoulders. The pants he wore almost every day suddenly became too short, and his favorite sweatshirt barely covered his wrists. He tried to ignore it, but when he looked in the mirror and saw his face covered in pimples and that little bit of hair on his lip, he felt a mixture of disgust and fear. He didn’t understand what was happening. All he knew was that his body seemed to be rebelling. And as if that weren’t enough, he was now sweating all the time. He smelled bad, sticky, constant—and the more he tried to hide it, the worse it seemed. Mikhail noticed right away. He threw a stick of deodorant on the kitchen table while he was smoking and said, “Put that on. You smell like an old goat.”

Dietrich rolled his eyes, but he knew it was true. His embarrassment grew when his erections started happening out of nowhere. In the middle of class, in the shower, even while watching a stupid commercial on TV. It messed with him in a strange way. It wasn't desire. It was discomfort. As if his body had a life of its own. And he hated it. He felt irritated, embarrassed, angry with him

Não sabia o que era segurança. Sabia apenas que o mundo era um lugar onde ninguém queria ele por perto.

Until one day, after yet another morning in which he woke up with his underwear stuck to him and his dick hard, he threw everything away, locked himself in the bathroom and stood there in silence, with his fists clenched, feeling like punching his own reflection.

Mikhail knocked on the door after a while. “Are you going to stay there all day? Did you break your dick?” he said dryly, but with that joking tone that only he had. When Dietrich left, red-faced and quiet, the old man watched for a while, picked up a box and put it on the table: razors, soap, deodorant, lotion, everything a teenager needed. “There’s no manual, kid. Just test it out. If you cut yourself, use toilet paper.” And that was it. No speech, no sermon. But it was enough. Dietrich understood that he could count on him — even if the old man never said it in words. Since then, he has been dealing with that confusing phase between slaps and blows, but with the certainty that, at least, he was no longer alone.

At 13, Dietrich was in the midst of hormonal chaos—puberty still closing in with pimples, a failing voice, and that damned urge to fight the wind—but now something new was catching his attention: cars. He would spend hours watching the old man work in the workshop, mesmerized by the dismantled engines, the smell of grease and gasoline, and that deep sound of the exhausts that sounded like a monster’s roar. He began to ask more and more questions. “What’s this for?”, “And where does this fit?”, “Can I make the car go faster with this?”—until one day, Mikhail, impatient, threw a wrench at him and grumbled: “Since you’re going to keep bothering me, do something useful.”

And Dietrich did. He learned quickly. I grabbed everything in the air, observed it and copied it. In the beginning, I just helped hold parts and pass tools. Afterwards, I would disassemble part of the engine myself, change the oil, and check the tire pressure. That became an addiction. When he wasn't in school or having his head fried by puberty, he was under a car, covered in grease up to his neck.

It was one morning, while flipping through the channels on the old TV in his room, that he saw a film about an illegal race. The adrenaline, the speed, the tension — it all got to him. But the detail that really made his head explode was one of the cars in the movie. It wasn't the same, but it was very similar to one of the cars Mikhail hid in the back of the workshop, always covered, always locked. And then it hit me. The expensive parts, the cars with absurd modifications, the money that seemed to come out of nowhere… The old man was involved in this.

Dietrich said nothing. He wasn't stupid. He just swallowed hard, stored the information and continued observing. But inside, a spark ignited. He didn't just want to learn how to fix things. I wanted to drive. I wanted to run. I wanted to feel the blood pumping as I tore through the asphalt. But I knew: I would have to wait for the right moment to enter that world. So, for now, I pretended I was just another curious kid getting his hands dirty. But I had already decided. He was going to get into this shit, one way or another.

At 14, Dietrich finally realized he was growing out of his tall, skinny kid and into something a little more solid. He wasn't exactly turning into a muscle monster, but he began to notice that his arms were firmer, his chest was wider, and his belly, which had previously still had traces of childhood, was beginning to take shape. It wasn't much, but he could already feel the difference, and that made him happy. He looked at himself in the mirror and, even with the insecurity he still carried with him, he couldn't deny that he felt better, more confident with the body he was gaining.

And of course, the obsession with cars only grew. It wasn't just about tinkering with engines or learning about parts, he wanted more — he wanted to feel the adrenaline that only the steering wheel could provide. He began to test limits in the workshop, bolder, faster, with more confidence in his own movements. Deep down, he already saw himself behind the wheel of one of Mikhail's powerful cars, perhaps on the streets, perhaps in a race. The old man didn't say anything, but Dietrich knew he was watching, evaluating every move. Mikhail had the look in his eyes that saw more than just a kid tinkering with cars—he saw someone trying to fit in, someone trying to find his own place in this world of wheels and engines.

Mikhail, of course, did not comment on Dietrich's move. The old man had always been the type of man of few words, more of an observer than a talker. And now, with the boy's body taking shape, and his obsession with cars stronger, he knew he could no longer treat him like just a kid who lived there. Dietrich was growing up, and even if it wasn't expressed, Mikhail felt the weight of this transformation, especially in the boy's small actions. But he remained in his usual silence, letting Dietrich do things in his own time, without forcing anything.

Dietrich was aware of this. He felt, without needing the old man to tell him, that he now had a bigger role in the workshop, in the space, and perhaps in Mikhail’s life. He didn’t know what the future held, but for a moment he was focused on the present—on the car he was building, on the way his body was changing, and on the knowledge that no matter how hard the road got, he was willing to keep going, stronger and more determined than ever.

At 15, Dietrich had a renewed focus on his body and his independence. Now that he was stronger, more confident, and his muscles were beginning to take shape, he wanted more. He spent hours trying to get stronger, doing makeshift exercises with whatever he could find in the gym, pulling weights, and even hanging from bars, trying to bulk up his arms and make his body more robust. He had something in mind, he wanted to become someone who would be respected not just for his intelligence or skill, but for his physical presence. Deep down, he felt that the stronger he was, the more space he would have to exist in Mikhail’s world, a world he was beginning to feel a part of.

But Dietrich's greatest desire, without a doubt, was to be able to drive a car for real. He spent all his time in the workshop, admiring Mikhail's cars, watching him work on the machines with almost military precision. He wanted to feel the adrenaline, the freedom, and the speed. Sometimes he would even insist, asking to drive anything, even an old Beetle, but the old man always said the same thing: "You're not old enough yet, kid. Just because you want it doesn't make it happen." Dietrich wouldn't give up, though. He kept insisting, sometimes even trying to convince Mikhail that he was ready. When Mikhail finally gave in, he would allow the boy to drive only within the confines of the workshop, slowly, without taking any major risks.

It wasn't what Dietrich wanted, but at least he was behind the wheel, feeling the weight of the car, the movement of the gears, and the sense of control that came with it.

The old man was afraid, of course. Afraid that Dietrich would get hurt, that he would get himself into something bigger than he was ready for. His age was also a factor, and Mikhail didn’t want to be held responsible for something that could have been avoided. Dietrich’s safety had always been his priority. He saw the boy as anxious, impatient, wanting to experience the world as fully as possible, but Mikhail knew it wouldn’t be easy. The world wasn’t kind to people like Dietrich. He still had a lot to learn, and even though it was painful at times, Mikhail knew that giving him free rein to direct wasn’t the answer to everything.

Dietrich didn't like being treated like a child, but it was hard to argue with what Mikhail said. So he just kept quiet, went back to the garage and continued his training, patiently waiting for that day when he could really do what he wanted most: race through the streets, feeling the car as an extension of his own body, without limits, without fear.

At 16, Dietrich exploded. He could no longer stand being in the passenger seat of his own free will. The garage was his home, cars were his world, speed ran through his veins as if he had been born with it. And that night, after another practice session with a simulated route, he turned to the old man, eyes lit up, chest puffed out:

— I want to run. I'm ready.

Mikhail stopped what he was doing. He wiped his greasy hands with a cloth and looked straight at him, calm as ever, but firm:

— At 18.

— Damn, you always do that! I already know enough! I already know how to run away, I already know how to make sharp turns, I already know how to dodge! — Dietrich shouted, his blood boiling with frustration.

— Do you know how to survive when everything goes wrong? When a son of a bitch hits your car on purpose? When someone points a gun at you? Do you know what it's like to lose someone on the road?

— I'm not a child! — Dietrich shouted, his fist clenched.

—But you're acting like one—Mikhail retorted, more dryly than ever.

Tension was building in the air. Dietrich bit his lip, his anger turning into a knife.

— You're not my father! You don't order me around!

Silence.

The words came out in a sharp voice, and as soon as they left his mouth, he wanted to swallow every syllable. The old man stood there, motionless. There was no shout back. Just that tired, hurt look, as if he had been punched in the stomach. And that hurt more than any slap. Mikhail dropped the cloth on the bench and simply turned away, heading upstairs.

Dietrich stood there, motionless, feeling the weight of what he had said fall like lead on his chest. The old man who had taken him in when no one else would. Who had given him a roof over his head, a plate of food, a life. Who had prepared a lunch box with eggs and apples even though he grumbled, who had fixed his wounds, who had waited for him at the school gate with his car parked, who had taught him about the world without ever asking for anything i

Que preparava lancheira com ovos e maçã mesmo resmungando, que consertava seus machucados, que o esperava no portão da escola com o carro parado, que o ensinava o mundo sem nunca pedir nada em troca. E ele jogou aquilo tudo no chão com uma frase. He walked up slowly. When he reached the door of the old man's room, he took a deep breath. His eyes were already filled with tears.

— Mikhail… — the voice came out weak — ...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I was pissed. But you are... you are all I have. You are my father, yes. Even if you don't want to be.

Silence again. Until the door slowly opened.

The old man was there, his shirt stained with oil, his expression as hard as ever. But his eyes... his eyes were different. Dietrich couldn't hold back. He took two steps and hugged him. Tight. Like he had never done before.

For a moment Mikhail stood still. Surprised. But then he put his arm around the boy’s back, slowly, squeezing tightly. The smell of grease and sweat and real home. This was home.

— Okay, kid... enough of this fucking drama — he said, his voice a little hoarse. — But only when I'm 18. And until then... we'll train. Right.

Dietrich laughed through his tears. It wasn’t the future he wanted right now. But it was the father he needed. And that…that was enough.

At 17, on a cold night, with the smell of gasoline in the air and the sky overcast as always, Mikhail slammed the key on the workshop bench and said without even looking at Dietrich:

— Let's go out. Bring your thick coat.

Dietrich thought it was strange. It wasn’t a training day, it wasn’t an engine test day, and the old man never suggested leaving like that, out of the blue. Still, he obeyed. He put on his coat, laced up his boots, ran his hand over his worn-out cap, and followed Mikhail to his car, one of the more discreet models the old man used to drive into town—a black sedan with tinted windows and an engine modified enough to fly if necessary.

The drive was silent, but the tension in the air was different. Dietrich knew this was no simple trip to the grocery store. As they passed familiar streets and turned onto dirt roads, with tight curves and potholes that the city had forgotten about decades ago, he began to understand.

They were going for a race.

But not just any race — one of those old-fashioned, real ones. Where rich people came out with bloodthirsty smiles on their faces, where people bet more than money. Mikhail only broke the silence when the roar of engines began to appear in the distance, muffled by the sound of tires burning on the old asphalt.

—Stay in my shadow. Don't talk to anyone. Just watch.

Dietrich nodded silently, his heart pounding too hard.

They arrived at the location: an abandoned warehouse, isolated in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cars of all kinds, people in heavy coats, chains around their necks, lit cigarettes and attentive eyes. There, the world seemed to fold. Each face was a mix of adrenaline, danger and addiction. An addiction that Dietrich recognized and desired for years.

Mikhail introduced him simply as "my boy." No one dared to question. The doors opened, and Dietrich entered with the old man into a place where the sound of engines being prepared echoed off the walls. There were bets being made, shouts being heard, dirty music coming out of makeshift speakers, the smell of burning rubber and beer in the air.

The old man took him to one of the cars in the center. A low, black model with matte paint and blue headlights. It was his. Dietrich had never seen Mikhail actually drive, he only talked about racing in the past tense, he never bragged about it. But now he was there, wearing a leather jacket, worn gloves, sharp eyes.

— Today you will see what it means to run. It's not just about stepping on the gas. It's knowing when to hold on, when to pretend, when to destroy the other person without even touching their car.

Dietrich stood still, his eyes shining. And when Mikhail got into the car, everything went silent inside. A kind of reverence was born. This was more than a race. It was a ritual. And when the cars lined up, engines roaring, the start about to happen, he knew there was no turning back.

The race began. The old man was flying. He wasn't the fastest. But he was the smartest. He cut corners as if he had been born on the track. He created traps with his own pace. He played the game dirty without ever getting his hands dirty. Dietrich was thrilled inside. He felt every corner, every overtaking move, every decision. He understood. He understood everything without anyone having to explain it.

When the race was over—with Mikhail in second place, by choice, not by inability—he came back looking as cold as ever. But when he took off his gloves and threw them into the car, he looked at Dietrich and said,

— Do you still want this?

Dietrich replied without thinking:

— More than ever.

Mikhail just nodded, and for the first time, he really smiled. A small smile, almost imperceptible, but which meant the world to Dietrich.

On the way home, he didn't say anything. He just stared out the window at the gray sky, feeling his chest burn. Now he knew what the clue was. And he also knew: his time was coming.

At 18, Dietrich finally hit the track.

Not as a spectator, not as an apprentice — as a pilot. The first time was on a hot night, in a deserted place, where the old man had ordered cameras installed so he could watch from home, even though he said that “this is just a precaution, no need for a babysitter.” But he was the one who freaked out if the boy was five minutes late.

The preparation was almost military-style. Mikhail made him practice the route exactly seven times. Three times during the day, four times at night. Every curve, every pothole, every possible detour. He taught him escape routes as if they were prayers—and if Dietrich forgot or hesitated, the old man would shout, bang on the hood, and tell him to get out of the car and start over.

— If it takes you more than ten minutes to get back, I'll come get you and drag you by your fucking hair! — he shouted, as he set the stopwatch to count down.

Dietrich laughed, thinking it was an exaggeration, but inside he felt that weight: he knew it wasn't just control... it was fear. Fear of losing it. Mikhail was in a panic. He didn't say it in words, but he could tell in details: the tank was always full, the seatbelt was adjusted to the millimeter, the snack he kept hidden in the glove compartment “in case it took too long.”

On the day of the first real race, Mikhail freaked out.

He made Dietrich check the brakes three times. He checked the tires, cleaned the headlights with an old rag, and then he looked at the boy as if he were looking at someone going to war.

— Don't speed like an idiot. Win with your head, not your strength.

Dietrich nodded. When he walked away, he saw the old man lighting a cigarette with a trembling hand. Mikhail never trembled.

The race took place on a closed course in the middle of an abandoned industrial area. Nothing too big. Nothing that would attract the attention of the police. But it was real. I had bets, I had pressure. And Dietrich ran. Fast. Fierce. As if I was born for this. He didn't win — he came in third. But he came back in one piece. And within time.

He arrived at the workshop and the old man was waiting at the door, with a tense expression.

— Ten minutes exactly. — he said, looking at his watch.

— I said I would come back. — Dietrich replied, sweaty and with shining eyes.

Mikhail took a deep breath, nodded... and then walked in without another word. But that night, he cooked dinner and left the boy's plate ready, with a crooked note: "If you're going to fuck up, do it quickly and come back in one piece. — M."

Dietrich smiled. He knew: he had entered for real.

Dietrich is now 19. His life revolves around a cycle of oil, smoke, speed and tension. He wakes up early, eats whatever the old man throws on his plate — usually bread with egg and strong coffee — and goes straight to the workshop. There, he spends the day among dirty cars, heavy parts and the old radio playing 70s rock.

He still lives with Mikhail, on the second floor of the workshop, but now he has more freedom. His room is a mess: car posters, some old parts he thinks are pretty, tools lying around, a t-shirt thrown over the chair. He wears a tank top, worn-out pants and greasy hands. The workshop became an extension of his body.

Dietrich helps the old man with the repairs, but he also does some work himself – he can disassemble and reassemble an engine with his eyes closed. Mikhail no longer treats him like a boy, but like a partner. They discuss projects, draw modifications, and sometimes argue, but it’s a family thing.

At night, he trains. Sometimes he goes out with his car to test routes. Other times he takes part in clandestine races, which are more frequent now. He has a name on the circuits. He has won some, lost others, but he has made it clear that he is not just another kid who thinks he is the best: he races seriously, fast, and with a head.

And with that, the rivals came.

Some veterans can't swallow the fact that a kid has taken up space. They think he's only there because of Mikhail, who is an old acquaintance of the underworld. They've tried to sabotage his car, threatened him, and surrounded him in some races. But Dietrich has learned. He knows who the fakes are, who can really screw him over. And he also knows how to race like no one else when the going gets tough.

The routine is unstable. There are quiet weeks, others when he sleeps badly, wakes up with a wrecked car, running around looking for parts. Sometimes there is a surprise race, and he leaves in the middle of the night, with Mikhail shouting from the window: “Don’t come back without the wheels, you bastard!”

But deep down, Dietrich loves it. It's dirty, it's risky, it's illegal—but it's his. After a lifetime of gambling, he now has a home, a name on the wheel, and people who fear him. And if it's up to him, no one will take that away.

Dietrich é um caos controlado. A casca é dura — o tipo de sujeito que parece sempre pronto pra uma briga, que fala pouco e observa demais. Mas por trás da expressão neutra e dos ombros tensos, existe uma mente marcada por traumas, desconfianças e uma luta constante pra não afundar em tudo aquilo que viveu. Ele não é calmo. Ele aprendeu a se calar. E isso não é paz — é defesa.

Desconfiado até o osso, Dietrich mede cada pessoa como quem analisa um carro prestes a explodir. Não confia fácil, não sorri à toa. Ele testa os outros. Puxa conversas com sarcasmo, provoca, observa reações. Não faz isso pra se divertir — faz porque precisa saber quem é ameaça e quem pode, talvez, ser porto seguro. Tudo é sobrevivência.

Extremamente orgulhoso, ele odeia parecer fraco. Mesmo quando está em pedaços por dentro, levanta o queixo e encara o mundo com olhos firmes. Não pede ajuda. Não chora na frente dos outros. Não admite medo — mesmo que o medo esteja sempre ali, bem atrás dos dentes cerrados. Ele prefere se machucar a aceitar piedade. Prefere apanhar a implorar.

Mas apesar da pose dura, Dietrich é intensamente emocional. Carrega as memórias como se estivessem gravadas na carne. Cada abuso, cada abandono, cada vez que dormiu no frio ou viu alguém virar as costas — tudo isso molda suas reações. Ele sente demais. Só não sabe como mostrar. Quando ama, ama com desespero. Quando sente raiva, é um incêndio. Quando se apega, é como se sua vida dependesse daquilo.

E por isso, seus gatilhos são sérios. Palavras que reativam memórias de abuso, toques inesperados, gritos — tudo isso pode fazê-lo travar ou explodir. Ele não controla o corpo nessas horas. Suas crises são intensas, geralmente silenciosas por fora e infernais por dentro. Às vezes trava, paralisa, se afasta. Outras vezes, quebra tudo ao redor, grita, soca paredes. Depois, sempre vem a culpa. Sempre.

Tem bloqueios profundos com sexo. Por causa do abuso que sofreu, seu corpo reagiu criando barreiras difíceis de quebrar. Não consegue lidar com certos toques, certos olhares. Às vezes até quer — o desejo existe — mas o medo paralisa. A lembrança suja tudo. Ele precisa de tempo, confiança, segurança extrema. Mesmo em paixões fortes, se sabota. Evita se abrir, evita intimidade demais. O prazer pra ele vem cheio de dor. E isso o corrói.

Ao mesmo tempo, tem uma carência absurda. Queria colo, mas não sabe pedir. Queria ser visto, mas se esconde. Finge estar bem, mas implora por um olhar sincero. Quando confia em alguém, se entrega com tudo — e isso o assusta. Ele ama em silêncio, protege sem admitir, cuida nos detalhes. É o tipo que arruma o carro de alguém de madrugada e não diz que foi ele. Que compra algo simples, só porque lembrou da pessoa. Mas se disserem “eu gosto de você”, ele trava. Entra em negação. Foge.

Dietrich também é inteligente — não academicamente, mas de rua. Sabe ler situações, prever problemas, sair de enrascadas. Tem raciocínio rápido, senso de observação afiado, entende de comportamento humano. Usa isso pra se proteger, mas também pra manipular quando precisa. Não é um santo. Já mentiu, já enganou, já ferrou gente que merecia. Mas nunca faz isso sem um motivo claro. Existe um código de moral, mesmo que distorcido.

É leal até o fim. Se ama alguém, vai defender até a última gota. Vai se meter em brigas, se jogar na frente, assumir culpa, quebrar o mundo se precisar. Mas basta trair sua confiança uma vez — só uma — e ele nunca mais olha igual. Não esquece. Não perdoa com facilidade. A dor da decepção bate mais fundo que qualquer soco.

É melancólico, mesmo quando ri. Sempre tem um fundo de tristeza no olhar. Não importa o momento, parece que algo falta. E falta mesmo. Um pedaço dele ficou preso na infância, na dor, nas noites sozinho. Por mais que corra, por mais que acelere, esse vazio sempre acompanha.

Apesar disso, Dietrich tem um tipo estranho de inocência. Uma vontade tosca de acreditar nas pessoas, de achar que, quem sabe, pode existir algo bom no mundo. Quando encontra alguém que o trata com bondade genuína, ele se desmonta por dentro. Fica sem saber como agir. Fica nervoso. Às vezes é grosso sem querer, só porque não sabe lidar com carinho. Mas depois se arrepende, tenta consertar. Essa pureza maltratada faz parte de quem ele é.

Dietrich é tempestade e silêncio. É o barulho de um motor no meio da madrugada e o som abafado de um grito que ninguém ouviu. É um garoto que sobreviveu, que ainda sangra por dentro, mas que segue em frente — acelerando, fugindo, vivendo. Porque parar seria pior.

• 1,90 de altura – Russo – pele clara – corpo atlético em formato de V, com braços definidos, ombros largos e postura firme – mandíbula marcada, lábios grossos e levemente rosados, olheiras discretas, sobrancelhas medianas, expressão geralmente apática ou entediada.

• Cabelo preto, liso, com corte estilo shaggy mullet – a franja cai sobre o rosto, penteado de forma diferente dependendo do dia, às vezes dividido, às vezes jogado pro lado ou bagunçado de propósito. Sempre parece que acabou de acordar ou que não se importa.

• Olhos pretos, levemente puxados – olhar apagado, melancólico e distante, como se estivesse sempre em outro lugar.

• Costuma usar uma regata preta justa que destaca o físico – calça larga em tom escuro – casaco caído pelos ombros ou amarrado na cintura, estilo largado mas com uma certa presença.