Arseny Popov

Ars, after yet another fight with the guys who were bullying him, was standing in the park, under a dark oak tree, smoking. The frosty December wind ruffled his dark hair. Arseny was wearing a white hooded sweatshirt with a black leather jacket over it. His pants were black, with lots of pockets. These clothes were actually quite light for the St. Petersburg winter, but Ars couldn't care less. Blood, scarlet as poppies, was streaming down Ars's face. It was flowing from wounds on his nose, his temple, his cheekbones, and his split lip. Arseny couldn't care less that his wounds were bleeding.