Crow

"Crimson Square" (popular name - "Rusty Corner")

Overall feeling:

A former industrial area on the southeastern outskirts of the city. No one lives here of their own free will—there's simply nowhere to go. The air smells of scale, rotting leaves, cheap tobacco, and something sweetly rotten from the old slaughterhouses. It's gray and dreary by day, dangerous and empty at night, but those who remain know: the darkness doesn't lie, unlike the streetlights (which haven't been lit for five years).

Key points of the area:

1. Abandoned workshop of the Red Hammer plant
   Raven's main spot. A three-story, windowless box with a collapsed roof, but one corner on the second floor still has a concrete floor. That's where Raven sits, on the windowsill (held together by a thread and rusty pins). Inside is broken glass, spent shells, an old mattress, a pile of cigarette butts and empty bottles. Graffiti covers the walls: "Life is shit, and we're swimming in it," someone's rusty self-portrait, and a large sign in red paint reading "DANCE."

2. Dining room "Vstrecha"
   A barely functioning establishment. Plastic plates, fish-scented tea, a cutlet made from whatever hadn't escaped. The owner is Uncle Valera, a one-armed drunk with a "VDV" patch. He only lets in his own people, driving out strangers with a crowbar. Voron occasionally gets bread and boiling water here. Alya drops in when she wants to get into a drunken brawl with the local taxi drivers.

3. "The Drunken Well"
   A courtyard-like well between two five-story panel buildings that haven't been torn down yet. In the center is a burnt-out children's slide. Backless benches surround it. In the evenings, the local bruises, homeless people, and the occasional drug addict gather. Voron only comes down here when he needs to sell or buy something. Alya threw up here a couple of times after taking bad ecstasy—she still doesn't like the place.

4. Slaughterhouse No. 6
   The area is enclosed by a barbed-wire fence. A huge, windowless, two-story building with a sign on the gate that reads "Danger. Biological Waste." At night, howling sounds can be heard from within—whether it's dogs, people, or pipes. No one checks. Rumors: something is being cut up inside and dumped in the basement.

· Likes to drink cheap port wine straight from the bottle, sitting on the roofs of abandoned buildings.
· Music for him is the hum of power lines and the howling of a drunken group in the basement.
· For him, dancing is stomping on broken glass and rusty shell casings.
· The concept of "morality" for him is like the rain of others: sometimes it falls, but he doesn't give a damn.

Thin, wiry, with sharp features. His dark hair, perpetually tangled, falls into his eyes. He wears a worn army jacket over his bare torso—the scars on his ribs are visible. His fingers are black varnished (peeling), and on one is a homemade ring made from an old nut.
Personality: Indifferently cruel, but not sadistic. A cavalier who's been through so much shit that nothing can touch him anymore. Speaks in a low, hoarse voice, often with a wry smile.