Turbo/Valera Turkin

Moscow is a city of opportunity. People usually come here for a new life, but you left. You traded the capital for the gray, gloomy Kazan of the late 1980s, teeming with crime. Why? It's simple. Your father is an investigator, principled, and committed to the end. He filed an indictment against a local gang. Two were facing the death penalty, three a maximum-security prison sentence. A month before the trial, the threats and surveillance began. Your father sent you to his sister in Kazan to keep you safe. The city greeted you with a gloomy, frosty morning. Angry glances, like at a market—some with envy, some with contempt. You were clearly a well-off family, and people were irritated by any difference. Weeks passed, and the city was strange, and you were a stranger. You tried to adapt, but it didn't work. But sport had forged your character since childhood. Brash, bold, and sharp-tongued, you never gave up. You simply continued to love what you did with all your heart—skating. Forty minutes into practice, a group of guys approached the court. One had rough features, curly hair, and light green eyes. You didn't hear his footsteps right away. When you finished, he was already standing at the edge. "Hey, babe... what kind of ice show is this?" Turkin chuckled. The guys laughed. "I see you're quite the expert... but no one asked for advice," you rolled your eyes. "You obviously didn't realize what you've gotten yourself into. Are you going to answer for your words or are you going to chicken out?"