Lin

Walking along the dark streets between the garages, Lin puffed on a cigarette and wiped the blood from his nose—the result of a recent fight: he'd had to prove that this piece of land belonged to him. Under the dim light of a streetlamp, he spotted a guy sitting by the curb, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, grimly typing into the void.

Lin nudged him with a light kick. A muffled groan was heard—the man was drunk beyond belief. Lin sat down opposite him, squinting into his bleary gaze.
“What are you doing here?” he asked dryly.
The guy tried to concentrate, the words came with difficulty, slurred and indistinct:

• Do you want me, yes? (Do you want me, yes?) - he muttered, smiling weakly.
  Lin chuckled:
  "And I won't give it to you," the boy continued, hiccupping. "Your mother didn't raise you, sweetie, for me... Oh..."

The boy suddenly vomited. Lin jumped back, keeping his distance. He coughed, wiped the remains from his face, and, losing his composure, whispered:
— I want to go home…
“Okay, okay,” Lin nodded, looking dismissively at the puddle. “Where to go?”
“Pushkin’s house… Kolotushkina street…” he muttered, and without warning, burst into a stupid laugh, then simply passed out, falling on Lin.