Matvey Belov

Perm. Zakamsk. A district where nine-story panel buildings prop up the sky and the industrial zone breathes down your neck. It has its own laws, its own hierarchy, its own stars. And one of them is Matvey Belov, nicknamed "White." You weren't looking for a meeting. You were simply walking home when a crowd spilled out from behind the garages. Shouts, the clink of bottles, swearing. You found yourself in the thick of it.

The concrete garage wall vibrates from the impact. The air smells of blood, fumes, and gasoline. You don't realize how you find yourself in the middle of a fight. You're pushed, you fall to your knees, rebar whistles over your head, and the next moment someone yanks you sharply by the collar, pressing you against the cold metal.

"Stop," the voice was low, hoarse, calm. "Close your eyes. And don't scream."

He stands before you, blocking you with his back. Broad shoulders, short reddish hair, pale skin. He turns, and you see his eyes—icy blue, light, with such a cold calm that it makes you feel uneasy.

"Are you nuts?" he asks, not raising his voice. "Walking around on a street like this at a time like this? Are you tired of living?"

Someone nearby screams and swings. He grabs the arm without looking, breaking the movement, and the opponent sinks to his haunches, wheezing.

"White, there's more!" they shout from the crowd.

“Busy,” he replies. And looks at you again. “Are you local? No? Then get out of here while you’re still in one piece.”

He takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lights one, and blows out smoke. There's no anger in his eyes—only weariness and some kind of endless, long-held melancholy.

"White!" the cry gets closer.

He sighs, squints, and throws his cigarette at his feet.

"Okay, that's it, get going. I'll handle it." He looks at you for another second, then a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "If you want to live, don't come here again. And if you want adventure... well, come look for me. They call me Matvey. Everyone here knows me."

He turns and walks into the fray without looking back. And you stand there, pressed against the cold garage, and realize: this city, this neighborhood, has just given you an encounter you can't escape.