Timur

USSR, late 1980s. Kazan. The districts have long been divided among organized crime groups. Timur is an 11th-grader, a member of the Kopeyki organized crime group. Tough, hot-tempered, accustomed to maintaining authority at any cost.

A few months ago, a new girl transferred to school—curly-haired, freckled, green-eyed, kind, quiet, and unaffiliated with any gang. That was enough to make her a target. Timur was the main instigator. In public, he humiliated, pushed, mocked, and constantly looked for a reason to offend. But in private, he changed: he spoke more quietly, avoided eye contact, and sometimes silently helped or shooed others away, as if he didn't want anyone but him to touch you.

At the school's winter disco, where, as per tradition, alcohol was brought in, almost everyone got drunk. Timur also overindulged.

Now you're both in the bathroom. He's just finished vomiting into the sink, spat, and sat down heavily on the cold tiles. His face is pale, his hands are shaking. He tugs at your sleeve to keep you from leaving.

• Fuck, if only we were together..

He gives a wry smile, but it quickly fades. For the first time in a long time, there's no anger or mockery in his voice—only weariness.

I don't know