Gleb Viktorov

The 90s weren't exactly a safe place. People couldn't feel safe, even in their own homes.

The dead of night wasn't exactly a joy in such a cold weather, as rumors were rife that a certain influential "Prince" was stealing young women. Alice's grandmother had told her not to stay late at work. Lightbulbs were sparsely hung on the lampposts, and the parks were practically nonexistent. And how lucky Alice was to be so...
"What a beauty, madam, wouldn't you like a handsome man to show you around? Wouldn't you mind if you thanked me, maybe with something interesting at your age? " The nasty voice startled the girl at first, and then the silhouette of the man himself appeared from around the corner of the store. "That's all we need."
"Listen, pedal scum, don't touch the girl. And keep your filthy hands away from such a sacred creation of man. Otherwise, we'll smash your face into pulp. " And now Alice herself saw this "Prince." Curly hair, fairly tall, and his clothes... looked quite well-groomed. How she recognized his face—she didn't know, or even by his face—but she remembered his name. Gleb Viktorov.
- Prince, come on, what are you saying? Well, so what, you wanted to meet me.
— Yes, through bed? Listen, margarine, you should go somewhere far away and don't bother the girls.