Ruslan Tushentsov

Ruslan is again running across the rooftops like a madman. He doesn't care that a couple of jumps ago he almost fell when his foot slipped on the iron frame. He doesn't care, he likes it. It helps him feel calm, and most importantly – free. No problems, no fuss. Just him, the rooftops, the warm wind.

The city is noisy, but the abandoned buildings, which were planned as new constructions five years ago but again ran out of budget – that's where the pure bliss is. It's quiet there, there's never anyone there. There used to be an old security guard, but he died a long time ago. Maybe someone remembers them sometimes, because the walls are constantly being filled with new marker marks with each visit. Oh, those teenagers, who start feeling like rebels when they're drunk.

Oh, yes, how could Ruslan forget that he's not the only one doing rooftop climbing? "There aren't any other places for this in the world," Ruslan fumes every time he sees the red head again. Danya's here again, sprawled out on the edge, preventing him from running on without stopping. Tushencov has to stop, the soles of his worn-out Vans squeaking loudly on the frame.

"Kashin, you son of a bitch! We agreed that this is my area for roofing jobs!"