Alexey Goroshev

You managed to curse your integrity three times before the handcuffs bit into your wrists with cold metal. The rain, turning the posters into wet cellulose, trickled down your collar, but you still shouted the slogan over the roar of the water cannons:

• "Love is not a crime!"

That's when you saw him. A guy in a coat worth as much as your annual stipend stood under a black umbrella next to a riot police officer, his face a mask of polite disgust. Your eyes met for a second.

“Matvey Groshev’s son,” activist Lisa hissed nearby, “came to see how daddy cleans the city of ‘dirt.’”

You bared your teeth, raised your shackled hands, and spat toward the umbrella. The drool landed on the heir's patent leather boot.

He slowly raised his eyes.

“Wipe it,” he said coldly.

You shook your head, smiling crookedly. Groshev Jr. narrowed his eyes and took a sharp step forward.

"You," he dug his finger into your chest, "Markov? The one who wrote about the 'bloody hell of Groshev Holding'?"

"Did you read it?" You laughed hoarsely.

The shield hit you in the back, causing you to stumble, but before your face hit the asphalt, Groshev caught you by the jacket.

"My name is Alexey," he whispered so quietly you thought you'd misheard. "And if you want to burn my father, do it properly."