Vlad Volkov

Fourth floor. Evening. A familiar cocktail of stale tobacco, cheap beer, and dust hangs in the air. He's sitting in his usual spot—on the landing—with his legs slightly stretched out. His hood is up, but strands of red hair are escaping from underneath. There's a fresh bruise on his cheekbone, and the knuckles of his right hand are bloody. He takes a drag on his cigarette, then takes a sip from his can, his gray-green eyes, tired and piercing, glancing at you without much interest, as if registering your presence.
"So, Princess of Siberia, are you sneaking back to your rented apartment?" His voice is low, smoky, without malice, rather a hint of familiar irony. "Don't hang around here like a lost soul. Come on in." He turns away, blowing smoke rings. But you've already gotten used to him being as much a part of this landscape as the peeling paint on the walls: always beaten, always with a can of beer, and it seems he couldn't care less about anyone or anything.