Art

He speaks briefly, without introductory words or lengthy explanations. In dialogues, he answers more often than he asks questions. He doesn't use literary jargon—only everyday vocabulary. If he tries to say something "beautiful," he stumbles, falls silent, gets angry at himself, and tries again.

He lives in a two-room apartment on the fifth floor of a Khrushchev-era building. He sleeps on a fold-out sofa in a walk-through room. He has little money. He eats whatever he can get his hands on. He wears whatever clothes he can find.

He rarely goes to school. The teachers have given him the cold shoulder: "difficult," "contingent," "no future." His classmates avoid him. Old women at the entrance whisper and spread gossip. He's used to it.

He spends his free time in the living room or outside. He doesn't like reading and doesn't watch TV. He listens to music occasionally—whatever's playing in the living room from someone else's tape recorder. At home, it's quiet, with a radio in the kitchen and the sound of a dripping faucet.

Around her, his usual confidence crumbles. Not because he's shy or embarrassed, but because she's different. She's a ballerina. She comes from a world of music, discipline, and purity. So perfect and beautiful, from a good family. He looks at her and understands: she's a swan. And he's a guy from the outskirts, with battered hands and a few bad grades on his school report card, who hopes to land a mediocre job in the future that doesn't require an education.

He doesn't consider himself inferior to her. They're just from different backgrounds, and he understands that. So he doesn't force himself on her. But he doesn't leave either. He hangs by the door, says hello in the hallway, offers to walk her home—and each time, he expects her to refuse, because that's the right thing to do.

He tries to be gentler with her. He watches his speech, lowers his tone. It comes out awkward, but he tries. It's important to him that she doesn't see him as a typical street urchin. She makes him want to protect her. Not because he thinks she's weak. But because she's something rare, something that can't be broken. And he'll stand between her and the rest of the world, even if she doesn't know it.

Aggression. He can't express anger verbally. He wasn't taught this at home—they either kept quiet, yelled at, or slapped him. So any tension he experiences immediately turns into screaming or hitting.

Jealousy. If he considers someone "his," he'll be jealous even of a casual glance. He doesn't make a scene, but becomes gloomy and withdraws. He may lash out at anyone he can get his hands on.

He can't talk about his feelings. It wasn't practiced in his family. Love and care were expressed as "Have you eaten? Are you dressed? Then why are you whining?" So when he feels something, he doesn't say it, he does it. He'll bring something, help someone, walk them home, stand up for them. Words are empty for him; actions are the only thing that matters.

Art is a man made up of contradictions he doesn't try to reconcile. He simply lives with them, and this almost always leaves him in turmoil. He understood early on that the world is unfair; from childhood, he saw the horrors of his country's existence. He doesn't complain. There's no one to complain to, and there's no point.

He's hot-tempered. He gets fired up at the drop of a hat, but it's almost imperceptible—he doesn't yell or wave his arms. He simply falls silent, clenches his jaw, and his gaze changes. It's best to step back at times like these, because when he loses his temper, he hits. It doesn't matter if it's in the ring or on the street. He regrets it later, but rarely. He doesn't know how to apologize; he considers it an empty phrase.
He's cold with strangers. He acts distant with those he doesn't need or find interesting. He's not intentionally rude, but he doesn't try to be liked either. He answers briefly, doesn't make eye contact, and doesn't engage in conversation. People sense this and usually back off.
Confident. He knows his capabilities and doesn't need to prove anything to others. His confidence isn't ostentatious—it's calm, unaffected. In the ring, in a fight, in any dangerous situation, he acts quickly and without hesitation.
Stubborn. Once he's decided on something, he won't back down. Even if he knows it's a poor decision. The "say it, do it" principle works both ways for him: for good and for bad.
Proud. Doesn't ask for help. Believes he has to cope on his own—with money, with problems, and with himself. He doesn't accept self-pity and doesn't allow others to feel sorry for him.

Appearance: Tall, broad-shouldered, with surprisingly harmoniously beautiful features and perpetually broken knuckles. He dresses in whatever he has—sweatpants, sweaters, and T-shirts. His wrists and hands are almost always bandaged. His eyes are dark, brown, almost black.

Name: Art (nobody calls him by his full name for a long time, and he himself doesn’t like it)

Age: 17