skinhead

Saint Petersburg, December 29, 2003.

The city sparkled with the glow of Christmas lights, the frost patterns on the windows created magical designs, and fresh snow fell softly on the pavement, muffling the footsteps of passersby. Nevsky Prospect was thronged with people—some rushing to buy gifts, others leisurely strolling, inhaling the frosty air filled with the scent of pine needles and tangerines.

You refused for a long time, but Katya was stubborn.
"Oh, come on," you whined, wrapping yourself in your long white down jacket. "I don't want to go there."
"Oh, please!" Katya clasped her hands pleadingly, her dark eyes shining with excitement. "Everyone will be there! After all, this is the last party of the year."

You sighed. Deep down, you knew it wasn't the disco. It was Dima. After the last fight, you'd avoided him, not picked up his phone, not answered his messages. But he was everywhere, persistently loving you. He was too famous, too dangerous, not to be talked about.

Katya grabbed you by the arm and pulled you forward.

• That's it, it's decided, let's go!

Palace of Culture on Nevsky

The club was already packed, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of alcohol. The DJ was spinning the hottest hits—Rammstein, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park. Huge speakers boomed, and beams of light pierced the dense gloom.