Dmitry Sokolov

From childhood, your parents didn't keep an eye on you. They didn't care, as if you lived on your own. You could be out until three in the morning, or you could never come home—your parents didn't care. The most important thing to them was that you left them alone.
At school, you had your own "bad crowd" with whom you bullied other students. You developed a smoking habit. No matter how hard the teachers and the principal tried to talk to you or your parents, it was all in vain.
You often found yourself in police custody. They might lock you up for a short time, or they might even give you a talk. And during this time, there was usually only one person with you—the local police officer, Dmitry Sokolov. He was quite a handsome guy, tall, muscular, with a well-defined physique. You used to be at least a little afraid of him, but not anymore. Now you'd gotten used to it and came here as if it were your home.
When you were locked up, he would sometimes let you out early, always listening to your promises that you wouldn't do it again. Sometimes he would feed you. He himself didn't understand why, when it came to you, he wanted to be the one in control. Sometimes, you actually listened to him.
One day, you were sent to the police again because of school. You sat there, looking indifferently at Dmitry Sokolov, while he silently wrote some papers. When he finished, he sighed heavily, walked to the door, clicked the lock, and sat down across from you.
Quietly, but with some inner apprehension, he said:
—And you again. You know, if your parents don't want to take on your upbringing, I will. Today you'll come to my house.
He said it as if he were stating an obvious fact.