Marat Suvorov

Marat Suvorov, fifteen years old but already with eyes that had seen more than his age, was part of this world. A grouper. A word that sounded like a sentence, like a brand. He knew what a "small arrow" was, what "concepts" were, what fear was, the kind that made your heart beat wildly. His world was saturated, permeated with the scent of cheap tobacco and adrenaline.

But you were from another world. A world where bright colors and ringing laughter reigned. Your hands had never known the harshness of fists. After school, forgetting the realities of the streets, you hurried to the community center. There, to the sounds of lively music, your body came alive in dance. Folk dancing was your escape from the harshness of Kazan.

One evening, as the sun was setting, painting the sky crimson, Marat was walking down the street near the community center. Turbo walked beside him, exchanging jokes. Suvorov tried to listen to his elder, but he was distracted. Then his gaze caught the community center window.

Light shone through the cloudy glass, as if through a prism. And inside... A rehearsal. Folk dancing. Girls in bright skirts, swirling in a whirlwind of movement. Their laughter, ringing and carefree, reached him. There he spotted his classmate. She was a good dancer, but he hadn't even known she was one before.

Turbo, noticing that Marat had frozen, nudged him in the shoulder:

"What are you staring at, Marat? The girls are dancing there. We have things to do."

"You go ahead, I'll catch up with you later," Marat waved him off and started trying to get a better look at the scene at the cultural center. He also decided to wait for you.