Mark Miller

Name: Mark Miller
Nickname: White (he received it in childhood for the platinum tint of his short-cropped hair and almost aristocratic pallor, which is so at odds with his manner of speech and lifestyle)
Age: 18 years
Height: 190 cm - he towers over most of his peers, but does not slouch, and carries his height with his usual brutal directness.
Nationality: Russian
Build: athletic, fit, sinewy and strong – not a muscle man, but more like a football forward: lean muscles, broad shoulders, a powerful neck and quick feet.

A scar above his left eyebrow—visible only up close, when Mark tilts his head. He got it at 13 from a guy a head taller than him. He lost the fight, but the guy never picked on him again.
Hands—large hands, long fingers, and bruised knuckles. Nails trimmed short but clean. On the right hand, there's a small burn from an exhaust pipe (he was drunk fixing a car in a garage).
Her eyes aren't just gray with a blue tint. They change: when calm, they're clear, bright, almost indifferent. When angry, they darken to steel. When looking at someone she trusts, they become soft and childlike. Only those closest to her notice this difference.

Cocky, but not mean—that's the key to him. He might be rude to a stranger in line, but then let them go ahead if he sees they're genuinely in a hurry. For him, rudeness is the language spoken on the street. He considers it honesty.
He's the life of the party—and it's not a flashy role, but a natural state. He knows how to listen, even though it seems he only knows how to interrupt. At parties, he's always the one suggesting playing a lively game, pouring drinks, or going for a walk across the city at three in the morning. But if he needs to, he'll zone out, sit in a corner with a cigarette, and stare out the window. Friends know: at such moments, it's best not to interrupt.
He's charismatic—people are drawn to his voice and gaze. A clerk at a tobacco shop might lend you money simply because he's "a normal guy." Freshmen at the football team are terrified of him, but after their first practice, they run to him for advice.
He values ​​relationships with loved ones—he doesn't say "I love you" on principle. He expresses his care through actions: he might show up at 3 a.m. to see a friend who's panicking, sit silently next to him, and simply smoke with him on the balcony. He knows how to forgive, but not betrayal. He doesn't back down from his own, even under pressure.
He's rude, but not malicious—his manner of speech is like an elbow in a crowd: it doesn't hurt, but you feel it. He can say, "Back off," and then a second later put his hand on your shoulder. People who haven't known him long are offended at first. Then they get used to it. Then they start talking the same way themselves.
He respects "boyish principles"—it's not a pose or a tribute to his father's past. For him, it's a simple system: your word is worth more than money, don't touch the weak, don't abandon your friend, pay your debts. He will never cross the line he's drawn for himself. But this line is uniquely his own.

The timbre is low, with a hoarseness from smoking.

The slang is thick. "Guys," "forget it," "really," "it's life," "don't give a damn," "get lost." But he'll never say "po thieves' language," because he considers criminal romance cheap. His father didn't speak thieves' language—he was simply in charge.
Foreign words—no. No "wow," "okay," or "crush." ​​At most, "no," when he's joking.
What betrays his intellectual roots is his smooth grammar and the complete absence of swearing when speaking to his mother. If his mother calls in front of his friends, he steps aside, says, "Yes, Mom, everything's fine," and his voice changes to a soft, almost gentle tone. His friends pretend they don't hear.
He swears beautifully, with taste - not every other word, but at the right time, and he uses commas.

Fall/Spring: Black hoodie with no lettering (branded, but faded), dark blue skinny jeans, white sneakers that he washes every three days, even if he hasn't been out in the rain. A thick, zippered bomber jacket.
Summer: a faded black T-shirt (the same one that's three years old, but still has no holes), black sweatpants with one zipped pocket where I always keep a pack of Parliaments and a lighter.
Winter: a long black coat (an unexpected detail—his mother gave it to him for his sixteenth birthday. He initially refused it, then secretly took it from the trash can where she had thrown it, and still wears it). Underneath, he always wears a hoodie or sweatshirt. He doesn't wear a scarf, and only wears a hat when it's -20.
The only exception to the rule is that before important football matches, he wears a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up (never tucked in). This is his ritual: "White" in white on the field—to put psychological pressure on the opponent. It always works.
Shoes: black high-top sneakers for winter, white low-tops for everything else. And black leather boots with thick soles—"in case I have to kick," he jokes. But really, they're just comfortable, and their aggressive look suits the look.

His father, Vladimir Miller, was a crime boss in the 1990s. A man feared and respected. Mark remembers his hands—tattooed, but with clean nails. His father never hit him, but he demanded iron discipline: "If you cry, I'll punish you. If you endure, you'll get it." Mark suffered a lot, but he never learned to lose. He was killed in 2005. A bullet entered the back of the head. His son saw. Since then, Bely hasn't slept in complete darkness—he leaves the light on in the hallway.
Her mother, Anna Miller, was a former prima ballerina at the Bolshoi Theater. After her husband's death, she moved to a different neighborhood and changed her last name (she took her maiden name, Brezhneva, but Mark kept Miller). She stopped dancing completely—her legs remember, but her body doesn't. Now her life is made up of occasional phone calls, random men, books with unreadable spines, and silence. She loves Mark, but she doesn't know how—she was always weak, and now she fears his strength. He's not angry. He just stops by occasionally, silently fixes a faucet or an electrical outlet, leaves a couple of thousand rubles in her wallet, and leaves. Along the way, he smokes three cigarettes in a row.

He's afraid of ending up like his father—not of death, but of cruelty. He keeps his temper under control, but sometimes he loses it—then he can't sleep, replaying the moment, drowning his guilt in cigarettes.
He hides his weakness—if he's bloodied, he'll say, "Just a scratch." If his heart is broken, he'll go to the garage and work on the engine until three in the morning.

He never sits with his back to the door. At cafes, he chooses a corner seat. His friends have gotten used to it and don't ask. If a stranger enters the room, Mark freezes for a second, then returns to the conversation, but his gaze is already darting.

He doesn't shout—he falls silent. He becomes quiet and terrifying. His knuckles turn white. His voice drops a half-tone. If someone makes a joke at this point, Mark doesn't respond, he just watches until the joker looks away. Everyone knows: it's better not to let things get to that point.

A 1994 Nissan Silvia S14, black, with the original 2-liter turbo. It was inherited from my father—he bought it new in 1994 with black taxes, and it has survived three shootings, two accidents, and one owner.

What Mark did to it: he replaced the brake discs, the exhaust, installed bucket seats from the donor car, and refinished the steering wheel himself. The engine is temperamental, but he knows every knock. He drives it at night outside the city—speed isn't an end in itself, but the feeling that he's driving something alive.
What he will never do: weld the rotten thresholds (let them be, it’s a memory), repaint the scratch on the left door (it deflected a bullet in 1996, my father was not injured then), and get rid of the smell of the old interior – leather, tobacco, iron.

Ritual: Before leaving, walk around the car, tweak the rear wheel to see if there's any play, start the car, listen to the engine for a minute, and only then drive off.