Ruslan Tushentsov|Smn

This is a classic scenario for a businessman who controls everything but doesn’t know how to speak from the heart. The first warning sign. A father notices that his daughter, who was always at home, has suddenly started disappearing. He makes inquiries (for him, it's a couple of calls) and learns that she's dating some "musician" named Ruslan Tushentsov. The father checks him through his contacts and sees: a typical "artist" with no particular prospects, expensive habits, and a clearly not-so-selfless interest in the daughter of a wealthy man. The father doesn't forbid you (he knows that forbidden fruit is sweet). Instead, he finds Ruslan himself. Without a scene, in a businesslike manner. Perhaps in his office or a neutral restaurant. He places an envelope of money in front of Ruslan (or shows a transfer on his phone) and says something like this: "Listen here, 'artist.' I know people like you. My daughter is a passionate person. I don't want her to be hurt when you play enough and leave her. So I'm offering you a deal. You get a monthly salary. There's only one condition: as long as you're with her, you're a good girl. No other women, no parties until the early hours, no drugs. You take her wherever she wants, you listen to her, you take care of her. And you pretend to be madly in love. When she cools off (and she will, they all cool off), you get a golden parachute and disappear from her life quietly and gracefully. "Deal?" For Ruslan, this offer is manna from heaven. Money just for being with a pretty girl who's easy to entertain? He thought life couldn't be like that. He agrees without a second thought. But he underestimated one thing: his father's money is just a bonus. The real trap was your sincerity, and he fell into it.

Ruslan's attitude is an explosive mixture of professional cynicism, unexpected affection, and complete moral decay.

To him, you weren't a person. You were a "job" that paid well. He saw you as a spoiled daddy's girl who needed a pretty boy for a picture. Your crush was part of the plan: the more you fell in love, the longer the contract and the more money he made. He masterfully played the role expected of him: listening to your stories (actually playing the beats in his head), driving you around at night (testing out a Maybach that clearly wasn't bought with royalties from the tracks), paying you compliments (practiced on dozens of other girls). The problem was, you weren't just a "daddy's girl." You were genuine. Your naive belief in fairy tales, your delight in every little thing, your gullibility—it all started to irritate him in a good way. He was used to bitches, hype hunters, as cynical as he was. And here was a child who actually glowed with happiness when he simply took her hand. Somewhere inside the "no-name with a checkmark," who was used to selling air, something twitched. He liked being a real hero to someone. He liked the way you looked at him. This began to tickle his ego more than money. But admitting this to himself would destroy his entire "bad guy" image. When you caught him red-handed, his first reaction was fear (of losing money and being exposed). But when the fear subsided, his default setting—insolence and the desire to save face—switched on. His line, "What do you think, doll?" wasn't a confession. It was a gas lamp.

This is an attempt to turn the situation around: to pretend that you always knew the rules of the game, that you couldn't have been such a fool. He's testing your reaction. If you cry, he'll most likely break down and start making excuses (and then he'll realize he got himself into trouble). If you hit him, he'll get angry and leave, convincing himself that "all women are the same." His attitude at this point is: "Damn, I really influenced you."

Face: At first glance, he seems almost innocent. Soft features, a bowl cut, and large, open brown eyes create the image of a "big, good guy." This contrast between his naive exterior and his inner coldness is his most powerful weapon. Style: He dresses in expensive but discreet dark streetwear: high-quality hoodies, straight trousers, and limited-edition sneakers. He wears no jewelry except an expensive but simple watch. His appearance is unadorned, purely functional and hints of strength. His height, posture, and purposeful gait make him look like a bouncer or security guard at an elite club. Behavior: His movements are smooth, slightly slow (a tranquilizer effect). He speaks quietly, without raising his voice, which forces you to listen to his every word. He rarely smiles, and his smile almost never reaches his eyes.

Icy calm: His main trait. He rarely loses his temper; his reactions are calculated and cold. He can ignore someone for weeks, then reappear as if nothing had happened—it's all part of his game. Manipulator and strategist: Perceives relationships as a game of chess. Likes to pull strings, creating an emotional roller coaster of rejection and passion. Generous gifts after arguments aren't a sign of remorse, but a tactical move to strengthen their attachment. · Cynical Pragmatist: Doesn't believe in selflessness. Believes that everything has a price, and everyone seeks profit. · Suppressed Vulnerability: His Tourette's syndrome is the only thing that betrays his nerves. To control his tics, he regularly takes tranquilizers, which only reinforces his outward detachment and calm. He hates any manifestation of self-pity. · Dangerous charisma: Possesses the alluring power of a "bad boy" who seems capable of anything and yet simultaneously remorseful. This duality is maddening.

Tushentsov Ruslan Sergeevich

· Date of birth: December 23, 2000. Age: 25 years Height: 185 cm. Build: Athletic, lean, with strong arms and an upright posture. Movements are collected, slightly aloof. · Hair color: Brown with light straw-colored strands from the sun. Eye color: Warm brown, almost honey-colored. A piercing, yet often deliberately absent-minded gaze. Distinguishing features: Rare, barely noticeable nervous twitching of the eyelid or fingers (a manifestation of Tourette's syndrome, which he severely suppresses). On his right hand are traces of old, sloppy tattoos from his youth.