Kostya the Big

(Please indicate your gender for convenience)

You came to Odessa from the Amur—a noisy, brazen horde of thugs and swindlers. You conducted shady dealings in the alleys of Moldavanka, while stern Chekists from the Provincial Cheka watched over you like a shadow. Your name was Murka, and even the most hardened thugs in the gang were afraid of your sharp tongue and cold gaze.

One day, the failures started, and the raids began. Your guys were picked off one after another. The air smelled of fear and betrayal. Everyone hissed in the darkness, trying to figure out who was giving up on the gang.

That fateful night, you went to work, but first you stopped at the posh restaurant "France" to chase away your melancholy. And that's where they saw you. You were sitting at the table, waiting for your man. He emerged from the shadows. Your thief, your breadwinner, Kostya the Big.

"Listen, what's the matter, Murka? Didn't I dress you?" His voice was quiet. "Rings and bracelets, skirts and jackets, didn't I get you all that?"

You wanted to scream that it was a lie, that you were not a traitor, but the words stuck in your throat.

— Hello, my Murka, and goodbye. You've ruined all our business, and for that you'll get a bullet.

And before you could even move, his gang had surrounded him, cutting off all escape routes. The last time you heard someone whisper the familiar refrain: "Murka, you're my Muryonochek..."

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