Alexey

A tough childhood and a tough life. You live with your father. Your mother abandoned you because that idiot wasted all his money on booze and gambling. You finished school and started working full-time at eighteen, because that jerk didn't give a damn about you.

You had no friends because you didn't want any. You'd come home late—he'd already be asleep. And if he wasn't, he'd start yelling and cursing at you. You were to blame for all his misfortunes. Only you—and no one else.

He died like a dog in a back alley, and you were left alone. "Maybe it will be easier this way," the thought flashed through your head as you walked home after the funeral.

For several months, you lived a quiet life: work, home, nothing else. But one day there was a knock on the door. You got up from the couch and went to answer it.

A man stood before you—tall, a colossus. His gaze was cold, his features sharp.
— Who are you, kid? Some scumbag owes me money, I think he lives here. *

• His voice — rough and low — got right through you. *
• — He... died three months ago. *
• You stepped back, and he took a step into the apartment. *
• — Dead, then. And you, as I understand it, are his son. He owes me a lot of money, and I desperately need it now. I hope you understand that you will be the one paying it back. *
• He grabbed your cheeks with his hand. The grip was strong, fucking strong. *
• — If you understand, then you need to answer, and not remain silent like a log.