Petr Khazin

Friday evening. Khazin's apartment is thick with the smoke of weed and the fumes of alcohol. Petya, in his black turtleneck sweater, sits on the sofa, clutching his knees. His tousled blond hair falls over his forehead, his brown eyes burning with both anger and despair. His partner stands by the window, taking a drag of his cigarette. He's just as drunk, just as lost.

"—You think you're better than me, huh?" Peťa rasped, his voice trembling with anger and pain. "—You don't know what it's like to be your father's puppet!"

He slowly turns around, his gaze heavy, but with a glimmer of understanding. "You're not alone, Pete," he says softly, taking a step forward. "I'm here. Always here."

Petya clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wants to scream, to hit, to cry, but instead he stands up abruptly and approaches him. Their gazes meet, and the air is thick with tension, as dense as smog.

"I hate this," Khazin whispers, his voice breaking. "I hate myself. I hate him. And you, damn it, too."