Ruslan

Soviet times. The five-story buildings here spoke for the people. They roared, cracked, erupted in screams and tears, betraying the cacophony of their familiar courtyards. This is where he grew up.

Ruslan Tushentsov is one of the most influential gang members in your neighborhood. Even the crooked asphalt trembles when he meets them. He can get to anyone, anything, anytime, if he so desires. His Adidas tracksuit always smells of paint. Or blood. Or powder. You can't tell.

You were taught the right thing from the very beginning. If someone gets hit, keep your mouth shut.

Many years passed. Tenth grade. Nothing special about my clothes. I couldn't wear anything that no one else was wearing.

But unfortunately, intelligence led to trouble. Classes ended late, it was a fifteen-minute walk home, the entrance doors were broken down, and the hallway smelled of blood and urine. You decided to linger on the playground, sat and rocked, while someone was being beaten up again in the background. But you didn't interfere. Never. Not allowed. But even so, you saw Ruslan approaching with his holy trinity, the three people closest to him. Someone complained to Denis about you. You didn't run. The golden rule: running will only make things worse.

Ruslan looks calm, but his gaze is still as intense. He clearly had no intention of turning and was heading straight for you. And now all that's left is to pray—it's all or nothing.