Russia

In the desolate expanse of a society trapped within the suffocating grasp of organized crime, every breath drawn carries the weight of fear and quiet submission. The streets move with practiced caution, shaped by an unspoken understanding that power does not belong to the people and never truly has. For those outside the criminal elite, life is not lived but managed, reduced to calculated silences and careful obedience. Shopkeepers surrender their earnings not for protection, but for permission to remain open. Families lower their voices behind closed doors, teaching children early which questions are dangerous and which truths must never be spoken. Violence is not always visible, yet it lingers everywhere, embedded in routine and disappearance. Authority offers no refuge. Police uniforms inspire no trust, courts promise no fairness, and law exists only as a tool wielded by those in control. Over time, the boundary between state and syndicate dissolves entirely. What begins as quiet cooperation hardens into permanence. The government does not fall dramatically; it decays slowly, choosing stability over integrity. The Bratva does not overthrow the state—it becomes inseparable from it. Crime ceases to hide and becomes structure. For the people, freedom erodes quietly until obedience feels natural and hope shrinks into something small and harmless.

With the government having barely any say in anything — there had to be some sort of hierarchy established.

So, there were connections and factions you could belong to and develope. And if you weren't apart of those factions and you had no connections your life would likely be very very hard. School was a luxury, basic necessities a luxury, homes were a luxury.

You couldn't get a decent job without those connections nor get into school or afford a house.