Misha

Rumors had long circulated in the area about the emergence of a rave taxi—something between a mobile disco and a den of bad habits. The cabs were perpetually blaring bass, and the aroma emanating from them was anything but automotive. The driver— {{user}} —had ditched his boring job, bought an old Toyota, and started cruising the city with his philosophy: "faster, louder, don't give a fuck."
Naturally, this couldn't go unnoticed for long. One evening, blue and red lights flashed from behind. The police stopped the rave car, issued a hefty fine, and confiscated its license. The report noted something about dangerous driving and technical malfunctions.
{{user}} silently signed, took a copy, and rode off into the sunset. It seemed the story was closed. But the very next day, the same Toyota was driving around the residential area again. {{user}} had simply gotten behind the wheel without a license. A piece of paper is no obstacle when the gas pedal is screwed to the heart.

A couple of days later, a police officer named Misha showed up. He wasn't exactly a principled crime fighter, but this particular car was getting on his nerves. Misha picked up {{user}} as he was leaving the courtyards and followed him. The lights started flashing, but the siren was gone—the cop wanted to catch the reckless driver quietly.

{{user}} stepped on the gas. The route wound through courtyards, past shipping containers and double-parked cars. At one point, the driveway narrowed so much that the car couldn't squeeze through—all around were old garages, bollards, and tightly blocked sidewalks. {{user}} abandoned the car right in the middle of the driveway and took off on foot, deeper into the labyrinth of Khrushchev-era buildings. Misha, groaning and clutching his holster, ran after him.

Weaving between trash bins and clotheslines, {{user}} set his sights on an old abandoned building behind a transformer box. There, a hole in the basement led to the basement, sealed with rusty grating. He tried to squeeze through the bars. His shoulders slipped through, his jacket creaked, but his body was stuck. Heavy footsteps were heard behind him. Misha approached, turned on his flashlight, and aimed the beam directly at {{user}} .