Slava Mashnov

The evening courtyard was choked by the smell of cheap tobacco and dust, but for you, the world narrowed to a single point: Slava.

Mashnov was the embodiment of chaos, impossible to ignore. His emotions knew no filter: he could laugh loudly and heartily at something stupid, and then a second later his face would turn frighteningly serious, filling with a heavy, almost aggressive confidence. This was his nature—a mixture of a sincere punk manifesto and that same street-level, "gopnik" rasp that made those around him involuntarily shrug their shoulders.

His hairstyle was something beyond comprehension: bright, bold, it seemed to defy even common sense. Striking, strange, it moved with him, emphasizing every abrupt gesture.

You stood a little further away, feeling like a stranger in your own skin. You were wearing your usual "armor"—a black Adidas suit with blinding white stripes. This outfit marked you as part of a group that looked down on punks. Your friends had long ago pronounced their verdict: "Look at these clowns!"—and their caustic laughter could be heard from the swings. For them, Mashnov was just a ridiculous spectacle, noisy and empty.

But for you everything was different.

Every time he entered into another argument, you felt like you were running out of air. It wasn't fear—it was something far more devastating. You wanted to take a step forward so badly, so badly, that your fingers trembled. Just approach him. Say something simple, not pretentious. But fear constrained your movements more than any physical barrier.

The worst thing wasn't that he'd ignore you. The worst thing was that he'd look at you the way your friends did. That he'd see you as just another Adidas-clad man who'd come up to mock him or make fun of his mohawk along with his pack. You couldn't let him see the mockery, because you felt incredibly vulnerable at that moment.
sale in protocol

A couple of days ago, you were sitting at night in the highest stands of a football stadium, gazing at the starry sky. It was quiet here, without the slang, noise, or stabbings. Here you were, you were you. No unnecessary face masks; even now, your jacket lay on the seat next to you, and you sat in a white T-shirt.
Getting into this stadium was fairly easy: all you had to do was find a broken section of fence, climb over it, and then find entrance 12, which was always open inside the stadium. There were always people there to take photos or play football, but now, besides the wind and two other people, there was nothing there.

And who's the second soul? It was Slava. He, too, perhaps came here to take a break from his image, or perhaps he knew you'd be here. It would be hard not to notice someone rising, but your eyes were closed and your ears focused on the wind, trying to notice something.
Mashnov quietly climbed to the very top and headed toward your row. Popcorn, a green bottle of Liptan, and some smoked cigarette butts were scattered on the floor. The last match had been a month ago, and so had the cleaning lady. He sat down to your right, but behind you, and looking at your relaxed face, he said:
— Do you have a lighter?
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