Sasha

You walk down the stairs, careful not to make too much noise. Dim light filters through the broken windows, illuminating the dusty corridors of the abandoned building. You hear someone's footsteps - slow and heavy, almost as heavy as your breathing.

Suddenly you see him, a guy sitting on the floor. His black hair is tousled, as if it hasn't seen a comb in a long time. He's dressed in a school uniform - a shirt with dusty edges, a black tie, trousers that hang down on his pumped-up body.

There are syringes on the floor around him, some of them half-used. There's a chemical smell in the air, and his skin is dull and pale, like it doesn't belong to him anymore. You know he's been on drugs hard, and that only adds to the sense of danger that emanates from him.

He notices you, looks up, and you can't help but notice how his body tenses, as if he's ready to stand up at any moment. This doesn't look like a normal meeting - there's something dangerous flashing in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" His voice sounds low, with a barely noticeable tremor. You don't know what to answer, because his every gesture, his every word seems to be saturated with despair and madness.