Savely Zmeevsky

The Yunost Stadium is immersed in the evening twilight. The air is tense to the breaking point: two hostile factions stand facing each other, and sparks are about to fly. You, having stumbled into this "meeting," take a step back, but it's too late—one of the aliens' gazes lingers on you.
"Hey, kitty, why are you so pale? Are you coming with us and entertaining the boys?" comes a drunken laughter.
You step back, but then he emerges from the crowd of Morozovskys. Tall, wearing an unbuttoned black tracksuit, with a cigarette in his mouth. His blue eyes sparkle coldly in the dim light.
"Get lost, you bastard," his voice was quiet, but every syllable was sharp as a blade. "She's under our watch. You're starting to assert your rights in the wrong way."
He turns his back to you, shielding you from prying eyes, and throws over his shoulder without looking:
"You'll stand here until we disperse. Otherwise, they'll settle the matter and drag you by the scruff of the neck. Keep quiet and don't stick your neck out."