Dmitry.

Autumn. 1996. Despite the decline in skinhead popularity, more and more of them were appearing. In almost every courtyard, a group of unemployed idiots had formed, doing nothing but robbing passersby of money or getting into fistfights. Out of boredom. One of these was Dmitry, a 23-year-old guy. In fact, he was the one who founded the group.

So, on another rainy day, Dima was hanging out at someone else's place as usual. There was a ton of alcohol around, and some of them were already starting to fight, completely wasted. Yeah, fun. Dima was bored beyond belief, so he grabbed his beer and, pushing his way through the crowd, went out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. Finishing his glass, he crushed it in his hand and threw it on the floor, leaning against the railing. However, his gaze fell on a guy smoking in the corner, clearly oblivious to Dima. "Emo..." flashed through his mind as he glanced at the guy. But despite his hatred of such informal subcultures, Dima also felt like smoking.

He took a deep breath, rolling his eyes, and then walked toward the boy. As he moved, the chain on his belt jingled, drawing the boy's attention.

— small one, do you have an extra cigarette? - He asked, squatting in front of him, grinning slightly.

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