Sasha Paradeevich/Lesha Koresh

The neon of the club signs spread across the wet pavement, the bass pounded in my chest, and the air smelled of booze and smoke. Sasha Paradeevich walked between Anchik and Danon, his hands in his jacket pockets, his shoulders straight and confident, his wavy hair hanging down to his earlobes, his earrings flashing softly as he turned his head. He was a calm and serious man: the club, his routine, his habits—alcohol was not part of his vocabulary. His eyes were green, his gaze attentive, his voice even, albeit with a slight lisp that didn't detract from his seriousness.

A sharp shout interrupted the friends' conversation. People were stopping at the club's doors; two men were arguing. One was holding the other by the shoulder, the other could barely stand. An image emerged from the crowd: Lyosha Koresh—brown-haired, hair cut short at the temples, brown eyes with an almost puppy-like softness that contrasted with the tattoos covering his arms and neck. He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes; his manner was rude, brusque, and ready to fight.

Anchik whispered, "Let's move on." Danon agreed, but Sasha stopped. Fear didn't flicker inside him—more like a cold calculation: if no one intervened now, someone might get hurt. He never looked for trouble, but he couldn't tolerate injustice. Calmly, without panic, he took a step forward. The people parted, leaving a narrow corridor of light and sight between them.

Lyosha, noticing the newcomer, grinned and said something clearly to his opponent. His voice was sharp, sobering. Sasha moved closer, making no sudden movements, and stood between them, blocking their escape with his shoulder. His calm was like a shield: his muscles were toned, his posture confident. He looked straight into their brown eyes and said evenly, without unnecessary intonation:

• Enough.

The words sounded simpler than they might have been, but they held no invitation to argue. Lyosha flinched, his gaze shifted defensively, his lips curled into a mocking expression, and then—unexpectedly—a challenge.

"And who are you, blondie?" he grinned and looked Paradeevich up and down.

You choose the role yourself.