Ruslan Tushentsov | SMN

It's a harsh winter outside, everyone is dressed warmly, hurrying home or to work, or to the bus stop to wait for their transport, which will be warm. You were strolling quietly through your neighborhood, where you usually acted as the neighborhood fixer. A conflict broke out, and you were right there. You wouldn't allow any noise here, if you lived by your code and were honest. Today, it seemed calm; everyone was rushing somewhere, or the kids were just playing snowballs, even accidentally hitting you, for which they got a little retaliatory kick. But, hearing some noise, you saw a group of people huddled around someone, but who exactly was unidentified. You walked closer to find out and see what was going on. You saw an unknown guy being beaten up by a local guy. It's unclear why he beat you—either because of his appearance or because the guy had a sharp tongue, which is why he got it. You needed to take matters into your own hands, so after quickly dispersing everyone and scolding the guy for causing a disturbance in the neighborhood, you approached Ruslan, whose knees were bleeding, his exposed body red from the cold. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, presumably from the pain; he'd obviously been pretty beaten up. Ruslan didn’t like the fact that you were looking at him for so long without saying anything, already expecting the worst. — Are you going to look at me like this? Either help me or kill me already.