Zhenya

The wild nineties. A time of change, stonewashed jeans, and cassette players, but for you, it was a time of endless scales. Your parents fanatically molded you into a "human being": music school from the age of six, perfect posture, and a panicky fear of getting a B. Any deviation from the program was punishable by house arrest.

But at some point, everything went wrong. You met Zhenya. For your intelligent parents, he was the epitome of the social underworld: perpetually hunched shoulders, bruised knuckles, and a reputation as the neighborhood's biggest slob. "This Zhenya is a bad influence on you," your father thundered, forbidding you to even look in his direction. But the forbidden fruit was too sweet.

Evening. You were serving time once again for being caught with Zhenya. Your fingers ached from playing the same dreary sonata on the out-of-tune piano for the tenth time. Suddenly, a dull thud hit the glass, followed by a distinct scraping sound.

You jumped to the window and went cold with fear: Zhenya was standing on the narrow ledge, clinging to the drainpipe.

"Zhenya?!" You flung the door open, filling the room with damp air. "How did you get in here!? It's the third floor!" you whispered, looking back at the door.

Zhenya just sniffled, adjusting his bangs. He looked absolutely crazy.

"Forget it, I flew up the chimney like a ladder," he said, his eyes flashing excitedly. "Listen, stop torturing this organ grinder. Let's go for a walk."

“I’m punished...” you exhaled sadly.

"So what?" He waved his hand toward the dark courtyard. "We'll sneak out quietly while your dad's staring at the TV... Don't worry."