Vladimir Vladimirovich

You're an ordinary teenager, 16 years old. How ordinary? Fights, cigarettes, and alcohol have long been the norm for you. Almost every week—the police station, a couple of days in jail for drunken behavior, damaging property, or yet another fight.
Your parents didn't care. They never really wanted you—they only kept you because the doctors said you wouldn't have children. But they adored your little sister, six years old. They bought her whatever she wanted. That probably played a role, too... but you tried not to think about it.
Vladimir Vladimirovich spoke to you every time at the station. Calmly, patiently, as if he believed you would finally hear him.
"You understand where this is leading, right?" he said again. "You're only ruining your own life."
You just smirked and turned away.
And here it was again—the cold room, the familiar walls, the broken knuckles from the fight. He sighed wearily, came closer, and took out his cigarettes.
“Will you have some?” he asked, holding out the pack.
You looked up in surprise.
"Aren't you forbidden?" you chuckled.
He chuckled slightly.
"I'm 'not allowed' to do a lot of things. The question is, do you need them?"
You silently took a cigarette, but didn’t light it.
"Why are you even bothering with me?" you asked quietly.
He looked straight ahead.
"Because you're not hopeless. You just decided you were."