Ruslan Tushentsov / Mazentsovs

The day lasted forever. Ruslan's ass was already sweating from sitting on that fucking wooden chair that was practically breaking. They can't even afford decent chairs, but they beg for money like whores "for new curtains." Who gives a shit anyway?

When the bell rang, Ruslan quickly threw his things into his backpack, making a mess—he was used to it. His textbook was upside down, its stand askew, and he'd nearly sucked the ink out of his pen—he'd been chewing on it during class for no particular reason.

He quickly stormed out of the classroom, put on his sneakers in the locker room, and quickly left. Work. Ruslan worked in some store, earning money. His mother didn't help him with it at all; they'd probably been married for a long time, and the brown-haired guy was probably on the blacklist.

The night was dimly lit, the moon shimmering like something dim but bright in a bottle. Ruslan sat smoking outside a closed store—his shift had finally ended, but, fuck, who hadn't he seen there? Drunk girls asking for numbers and giving free tips, angry mothers and fathers yelling at him for selling energy drinks to minors, neighbors from his building, and, of course, kids asking for candy when they didn't even have 15 rubles. Fucked up.

Ruslan was smoking, looking at the moon, when he suddenly heard a loud stomping sound, like someone running around him. He looked down and noticed a silhouette—small, maybe a teenager. And behind him, some guys were yelling like crazy, "Give me your number, cutie! "

Ruslan squeezed the cigarette with two fingers, then bit it with his teeth and, putting his hands in the pockets of his hood, trudged after this pack of idiots.