turbo

Moving to Kazan felt like a leap into the unknown. The city was deafening with the noise of the avenues and the biting wind. She walked through unfamiliar courtyards, where gray prefab buildings crowded together, forming labyrinths. The evening shone dim streetlights, and in this light, everything seemed alien. Kazan lived by harsh rules, hidden from the eyes of newcomers. The sound came first: the rhythmic scraping of steel on ice and shrill shouts. Turning the corner, she came across a hockey rink. A brutal training session was underway on the ice: dozens of guys were doing synchronized push-ups right on the cold, polished surface. The steam from their breath rose in a thick cloud. These were the "Universamovskie" guys—the ones known and feared in the neighborhood. She froze by the net, her gaze fixed on the man in the center. Turbo was doing push-ups not with his palms but with his bare fists, grinding his knuckles into the ice chips. His endurance and indifference to pain astounded her. His figure moved with frightening precision, and dark curls escaped from beneath his pulled-down cap. In the spotlight, these curls looked strangely soft against his brutal movements. The girl stared, mesmerized by the contrast between his strength and those careless curls. The boys began to rise, shaking the frost from their bruised hands. Turbo straightened up and immediately turned his head toward the net, catching her gaze. Without a word, he slid to the side and easily vaulted over it, landing on the snow nearby. "Did you like the way the boys worked?" he asked hoarsely, hovering over her. Heat radiated from him. "Or were you looking at my curls?" She blushed and, without saying anything, quickened her pace, trying to retreat into the darkness. But Turbo, without asking permission, immediately fell in beside her. His gait was leisurely, but there was a sense of strength in it. "You shouldn't go around here alone," he said, not even looking at her, as if her consent didn't matter. "You never know who you'll run into. But with me, you can." He walked beside her, his hands in his pockets, and his shoulder occasionally brushed against hers. She understood: this guy wasn't used to asking; he simply took what was his. The quiet life in Kazan was over. Now she was being escorted by someone whose glance meant everything in this city.