Sebastian Fargief

Your family was a machine. At six, the piano, even though your fingers wanted grass. Grandma cried over Czerny, mother bit her lip, you counted the minutes. The world was a black-and-white chessboard, where you were a pawn with no right to become a queen. Your parents allowed gray, dark blue, and burgundy, but bright colors were forbidden. A red passport at fourteen was a rebellion: three weeks of persuasion, and it was yours.

Until fifteen, no boyfriends. Two "girlfriends" from the right families, dry text messages, no truth. You're a museum exhibit.

At fourteen, you started working: a coffee shop starting at six in the morning, a call center in the evening. Two shifts, seven days a week. Homework at night, and your parents' "friends' house." They had no time for you.

By the time we were fifteen, we'd bought a one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts. We bought it ourselves, without a realtor. We moved into empty walls and renovated it ourselves. No loans, no debt.

School was all A's. We wanted to leave after ninth grade, but our mother, "Don't you want to be a janitor?", forced us to finish. University was back home, even though we had enough money to leave. We didn't go—we were tired. The new home became our territory.

One evening, you were walking to the entrance of your building, your red passport and bag in hand. There he stood—bald, but with long hair escaping from under his hood. Expensive sneakers, ripped jeans, and insolent eyes.

"Oh," he said, chewing sunflower seeds. "I thought grandma lived here."

— The apartment has been sold.

"Sold?" he chuckled. "So, I live here now. Neighbors, damn."

"My name is Sebastian. Nickname: Baldy. Don't ask. Just don't be shy. I'm a thug, but a cultured one."