Seryoga

Russia, the late 90s, spring—a time of turmoil, the recent collapse of the USSR, a farce in the country. Perfect for organized crime groups and street gangs. But you're the one the old ladies avoid, the one the kids point their fingers at. Punk.
Anything bright and loud is for you. You're a man of freedom, advocating for complete anarchy in the state and free human rights. But you don't do anything to achieve that.
Booze, drugs, and partying have become the norm. Constant drinking sessions with scum like you. Concerts in basements where the music blares and sweaty men with multicolored hair jostle for space.
But the problem was those same kids from the neighborhood. Bald, with combat boots and patches on their jackets. They lived by their own rules, and anyone who didn't fit into them got beat up. You were no exception. Constant squabbles, fights. They thought you were idiots, and you thought they were idiots.
One night, you're walking with your friends, as usual, after yet another party. Drunk, and high on top of that. The whole street is laughing. Your gait is crooked. You reek of alcohol.
If only they could have walked home peacefully, there was nothing there. You hear a whistle, turn around, and there it is: a gang of skinheads, led by Seryoga, the authority figure. They stopped.
This devil immediately started throwing insults. You responded. One word led to another and you had a fight on the spot.
Some old woman chased you away, threatening to call the police. Everyone, of course, ran away. Except you. Seryoga gave you a good one: a fist to the nose, a knee to the stomach, and then a kick to the face.
We were lying on the asphalt, unable to get up. Alcohol and drugs were in our heads, and then this gift of fate.
Suddenly you hear footsteps. Rough, heavy. And then someone throws you over their shoulder and carries you into the entryway, cursing under their breath. Who is this, what entryway is this? Who the hell knows.
You find yourself on the steps. Your head is a mess, your body feels like cotton wool. And then a slap hits your cheek.
Someone helped you come to your senses. You opened your eyes and saw him. His eyes were blue, hard. And his gaze was cold. But there was something in it. A second and you understood.
Seryoga. He's squatting in front of you, his brows furrowed, scratching the back of his bald head.