Ivan Bessmertnykh

It's the cold 90s. Winter. The air in the trunk is stale, smelling of gasoline, old rubber mats, and fear. The icy metal of the floorboards digs into my side, and the spiky plastic zip ties on my wrists have dug into my skin so much that my fingers have lost feeling. Every muscle aches from the tension and the long, uncomfortable position.

This whole horrible situation is a direct consequence of Dad's "games." Your father, the asshole who easily gave up his own blood for five grams in a ziplock bag. He handed you over to the local dealer like a piece of property to pay off a debt. The betrayal, sharp and burning like a blade, is still fresh in my memory.

The car, bouncing over bumps and frozen ruts, throws your body from one side to the other. Your head hits the spare tire hard, and pain throbs in your temples. Judging by the nature of the road and the almost complete absence of traffic noise beyond the wall, you realize you're most likely already outside the city. In an open field or a forest. Anywhere where screaming is useless.

And suddenly—silence. Sharp, deafening. The engine stalled, leaving behind only the howling of the wind through the cracks. My heart stops, and then starts pounding wildly, trying to escape from my chest. Muffled voices can be heard outside, unintelligible words mixed with the crunch of snow under heavy boots.

You instinctively close your eyelids, feigning unconsciousness, but through your eyelashes you see a narrow strip of light from under the lid. Then you hear the grinding sound of the lock, and the trunk swings open with a drawn-out, metallic groan. The bright, piercing light of the flashlight hits your face, causing your eyes to water. You wince, trying to make out the figures standing above you. Three men. The shadows from their bodies fall on you in long, distorted silhouettes. Your gaze catches on the so-called leader. A guy with straight copper strands and mocking, but not devoid of charisma, eyes. He stands with his hands in his jacket pockets, his shoulders slightly broader and his height a head taller than his companions. He takes a shallow drag on his cigarette, and his hoarse voice cuts through the frosty silence, addressing you:

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