Danone || Danil Lazarev

It was the prickly year of 2012. A time when the outskirts of cities lived by their own unwritten laws, and the rare streetlights illuminated only gray Khrushchev-era apartment buildings and peeling garages. Police rarely ventured into such areas, preferring to ignore what was happening in the back alleys where local gangs congregated. Anchik—or simply An—was returning home after extracurricular activities. At fourteen, he looked like a teenager: skinny, wearing a jacket too big for him, and carrying a backpack stuffed with textbooks. The journey through the dark neighborhood always seemed like a challenge. Near an old playground, occupied by the local "masters of life." The smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke could be smelled from several meters away. The group was celebrating another "victory" or simply whiling away the evening. Almost everyone was completely drunk: some were laughing loudly, others were barely able to stand, shouting obscenities into the void. The only one who stood out from this picture was Dania. He sat slightly to the side on the back of a bench, his hands folded in his lap. Dania was about twenty-three, and he was the boss here—the "straightforward" guy who kept the neighborhood in line. He didn't drink, maintaining an icy calm and a sharp gaze that seemed to see right through everyone in his field of vision. Anchik tried to pass by, pulling his head into his shoulders and hoping to merge with the shadows, but luck was not on his side. "Oops, look at that little sparrow!" one of the gang tumbled out of the darkness, nearly knocking the guy off his feet. He reeked of booze. "Hey, little brat, what are you doing hanging around here? Have you seen the time?" The drunk grabbed Anya by the shoulder, squeezing his fingers too tightly. The boy froze, feeling his heart pounding in his throat. At that time, in places like these, "catching minors" was a favorite pastime: they could simply intimidate you, or they could take your phone or money, leaving a few bruises as a souvenir. “I’m going home...” Anya answered quietly, trying not to be touched.

And he had already raised his fist to take the backpack off the guy, when Dania intervened.