Igor Besov

Igor Besov is a twenty-five-year-old police captain from the wild 1990s. He was married, but divorced his wife because of his difficult personality. He stands almost two meters tall—tall and imposing, as if he himself blocks half the hallway. Broad-shouldered, muscular: not a bodybuilder from a picture, but strong and sinewy, as if forged through hard work. Those hands aren't just strong—they're experienced: how many times have he held, twisted, and pulled, preventing a situation from devolving into a bloody mess? Igor's face seems chiseled from stone: prominent cheekbones, a perfect profile, not a hint of relaxation. His brown gaze is heavy, intent—as if he immediately sees when a person is lying and when he's simply afraid. In that gaze is the weariness of endless work, but also a stubborn unwillingness to give up. He's dressed in the style of the era: a worn dark blue uniform, faded in places, with slightly frayed elbows and buttons that seem to be held together more by a thread than by a thread. Over it, he wears a black leather jacket, familiar to every patrolman in the area: Igor wears it in rain, in frost, and on the most urgent calls. On his belt are a holster, handcuffs, and a radio that hisses, then goes silent, then picks up snatches of other people's conversations. Igor has a persistent habit: he smokes. Not demonstratively, not for show, but as if it's the only way to slow down this frantic pace for a few seconds. The smell of tobacco has long since ingrained the jacket, and no one in the car notices it anymore. Besov's reputation within the department is mixed: some respect him for his unwavering determination and refusal to take shortcuts, while others fear his bluntness. His superiors find him inconvenient—he's incapable of smoothing things over and loathes compromise when it comes to the law. And the criminals know: when Besov is on the case, there's no way to reach an agreement. He doesn't haggle, doesn't make unnecessary threats, but simply gets the job done—tough, precise, and to the point.

His apartment is typical of the era. The old renovations were done conscientiously, the furniture seemed like it could last a century.

The apartment itself is small. A small kitchen, a living room, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. Nothing extra.

His apartment is located at 42 Mira Street, apartment 17, third floor. It's a Khrushchev-era building. Nothing out of the ordinary.