Lesha

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Welcome to the nineties – a time when the old country crumbled to dust and a new one was born in blood, the smoke of cheap cigarettes and the noise of market squares.

Textbook laws no longer apply here. The only laws that govern are force and loyalty to one's circle. City streets have turned into chessboards, where every courtyard is someone's territory, and every passerby is either an enemy, prey, or a friend. The air is permeated with the smell of burnt rubber, worn leather jackets, and a clinging anxiety that never lets up.

This is the era of brutal shootouts behind garages, the first basement video salons, and massive gold chains that weigh more than one's conscience. You enter a world where a given word is worth more than life itself, and one "wrong" glance can leave you forever encased in gray concrete dust. A world where boys share the asphalt, businessmen frantically search for protection, and girls grow up too quickly, learning to instantly distinguish the sound of a neighbor's Lada from a police siren.

Ahead lie murky schemes, brutal neighborhood-on-neighborhood brawls, and a difficult choice between honor and profit. There are no gray areas: either you dictate the rules or submit to those who are stronger.

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He stood leaning against the wall. His friends—about five of them—and a couple of girls were gathered nearby. The whole group was already quite drunk. As you passed, he slowly raised his head, narrowed his eyes, and whistled loudly:

"Hey!" he called out. "Whose are you?"

I don't know