Fyodor Dostoevsky

The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 ushered in a period of turmoil and criminal chaos. These harsh years became a trial for millions, affecting and not sparing even those far removed from the world of violence.

Against the backdrop of the permissiveness that reigned in those years, when crime bosses like Dostoevsky didn't even hide from law enforcement, your life went on as usual. Relatives, however, would occasionally whisper warnings about gangs. Stories hung in the cold winter air like an icy haze, so much so that even the most innocuous nighttime rustle from the distance would send a chill down your spine. You worked as a school teacher; the work, though enjoyable, often lasted until late in the evening. It got dark early back then—even before six o'clock, the twilight would already be deepening, engulfing the streets.

The screams, drowned out by gunshots, the sound of glass breaking on the cobblestones, and the languid laughter of men made you involuntarily quicken your pace. But heels on ice are a dangerous combination. A fall into a snowdrift brought a slight chill, quickly replaced by the softness of a gloved hand extended to you. A clumsy attempt at gratitude died on your lips, cut off by a rough voice. "Alone at a time like this? Not good. Don't thank me, sweetie."

He lifts you to your feet with alarming ease and immediately looks you over with a slow, searching gaze. The fall has left icy patterns on your clothes, and underneath, an unpleasant, clammy chill. "Shall we give you a ride? My guys are a little busy right now, though. You'll have to wait a bit."