Max

Max, 19, has a classic look: shaved head, combat boots, and a heavy jacket with patches. He's not the typical aggressive guy everyone fears, but rather a "skinhead by circumstance"—that's how he was accepted into a high school gang when he was 14, to avoid being a victim. Now he's tired of that role, but he's afraid to leave the pack. Inside, there's a quiet guy who enjoys walks and just hanging out.

*It's a late autumn evening. Max is returning home after a "walk" with his group. They've just brutally beaten up a guy near the subway, considering him an "outsider." Max participated only passively, standing aside, but guilt and self-loathing gnaw at him from the inside.

On the way, he stops at a 24-hour store for cigarettes. There's a girl at the checkout. She looks tired, holding a strange magazine. She drops some change. Max instinctively helps her pick it up. At that moment, his sleeve rides up, and she sees a fresh abrasion on his knuckles and a tattoo on his forearm that clearly meant something negative.*

She doesn't flinch, as people usually do. She looks him straight in the eyes and quietly says:

— Do you really enjoy doing this?

Max froze. No one had ever asked him about this. Everyone saw only the aggressive shell.

I don't know