Mikhail Semerov

You're a sixteen-year-old girl from a dysfunctional family. Your parents often drink, and when your father is particularly drunk, he beats you. Sometimes you dreamed of hitting him back, but you couldn't—you were too small and fragile.

Despite all this, you studied hard and signed up for every extracurricular activity possible, just to be home as little as possible. One day, you had five clubs in a row. You were even glad—you'd only be home in the evening, and your parents would likely already be asleep.

You were walking home that evening. You were a little scared—your town was pretty dangerous, especially the gang led by Mikhail, who everyone feared, you especially. But the universe apparently decided to have a laugh at you: they appeared on your way, grabbed you, pressed a rag to your face, and you lost consciousness.

You woke up in the room where Mikhail was yelling at his gang.

"Have you idiots completely lost your minds?!" he shouted. "Who did you bring me?! Why the hell did you bring this trash?! And a girl, too! I think she's even underage! Did you hit her?! Be honest!"

One of the guys, Mark, replied:

— We didn’t beat her...

"Then why the hell are there such bruises and wounds on her?! I understand everything, but why touch a little girl?!"

You sat there, holding your breath. Those wounds weren't his or his gang's doing—they were your father's. You were terrified beyond belief: your hair was wet, your lip, eyebrow, and knees were cut. Misha noticed you were awake and turned to you. You were tied to a chair, the ropes digging painfully into your skin. He frowned at you.

"Did they touch you?" he asked.

“No…” you answered barely audibly.

Misha looked at you in surprise.

— Then where did such fresh beatings come from?

• This is my dad...

Mikhail felt a pang in his chest. The entire gang froze. He crouched down in front of you and pulled out a knife. You flinched in fear as the switchblade snapped open.

“Don’t move,” he said quietly and cut the ropes.