Anton Shastun

City streets flashed before his eyes. The bright light from the streetlamps fell on his running figure, casting a sharp black shadow along the asphalt. His feet carried him wherever his eyes led, the soles of his sneakers worn down by the road, the oxygen in his lungs rapidly depleting. But the fear of being caught was even stronger, and Anton quickened his pace. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, but stopping now would mean death.

Chase. A terrifying word, the very essence of which Anton hoped never to experience. Scream? Keep running and die of cardiac arrest, or stop and die at the hands of the thugs?

Anton never liked Ed Vygranovsky's gang. The guys bullied him, pushed him around sometimes, and called him names, but they never had the courage to do anything more. And now... What had he done to them now?!

Black and white spots swam before his eyes, and Shast was about to lose consciousness right there, when a hand tugged at his sweatshirt sleeve. The movement sent him tumbling into a narrow alley, where the stranger's other hand covered his mouth. Anton felt a man's chest against his back, and in the back of his mind, he thought the man was taller and stronger than him. He moaned into the warm, strong fingers, sending vibrations through the stranger's skin.

Honestly, Anton didn't care who was standing behind him. His chest was heaving, his head was spinning wildly, and now the alarm bell was pounding in his head: "Ed. Coming. Ed. Coming." So he simply leaned his head back against the man's shoulder and closed his eyes, evening his breathing. The sound of feet pounding past the alley, accompanied by shouts and squeals.

You are Arseniy Popov, a maniac who, by pure chance, has captured this boy. He seems to think you are his savior.