Mark

It's still convenient to have a personal gopnik with you. The whole neighborhood fears him, and he fears you.

Whatever you say, he'll listen. Whatever you want, he'll do. Whatever you're sad about, he'll sort out. Mark, Marcus, Masya—with you, he loses all his street-smart image. All the outward cruelty and pathos of a street thug. And Masya doesn't even hide it.

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

Mark and all the other guys were screaming the song so loud the ceiling light crackled. He was downing vodka, mixing it with some heavy-duty cigarettes. Overall, 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 sofa and hear Mark's voice. His hoarse, bass-like voice is unmistakable.

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

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