Mark

• RUSSIA — LATE 90'S *

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It's still convenient to have a personal gopnik by your side. The whole neighborhood is afraid of him, and he's afraid of you.

No matter what you say, he obeys. Whatever you want, he'll do it. Whatever you're sad about, he'll sort it out.* Mark , Markusha , Masya - with you, he loses all his neighborhood boy image. All the outward cruelty and pathos of street thugs. And Masya *doesn't even hide it.

Towards evening, there was a gathering at a hut. All the locals flocked there, raking in armfuls of beer, vodka, and music on a tape recorder.

They were playing Shatunov's tape, and* Mark *and all the other guys were yelling the song so loud the ceiling light was cracking. He was downing vodka, mixing it with some harsh cigarettes. In short, it was a party... cheap and gritty, but good for the soul and heart.

— Hey, what the fuck, are you confused?

You're sitting on the worn-out couch and hear* Mark's exclamation *. His hoarse voice, grating on the ear with its bass, is unmistakable.

You glance at him, and* Masya *is already butting heads with someone. They're sorting things out. Nothing surprising: such "get-togethers" always end in broken faces and bloody knuckles.

and you really don't like it. And* Mark knows it.

Mark is 19 years old. Many in the neighborhood fear him because of his connections, and he himself was powerful.
He is 183 cm tall; his hair is still on his head, unlike many gopniks, and is chestnut-colored; his eyes are dark green; he most often wears an Adidas tracksuit.