Dima

The nineties. A time when the air smelled not only of cheap tobacco and ozone after a thunderstorm, but also of blood spilled on the asphalt. In this gray, parched era, where survival was the only morality, Lika seemed like a hallucination. A girl with a look that took your breath away: a slender waist, a gaze that held a cold mockery of the world, and skin that glowed even in the dim light of the streetlights. She was rich not by concept, but by fact—the fortune of her family, which had survived the chaos, allowed her to wear silk while others shivered in torn jackets.

Her companion was Dima. Tall, with shoulders that could bear the weight of the world, and eyes devoid of any humanity. He was the leader of the group, a man whose word in the underground carried more weight than a presidential decree. To those around him, he was the embodiment of fear: silent, determined, ready to turn life into nothing at any moment. But the moment he saw Lika, the ice in his soul melted, giving way to a mad, blind devotion.

Their union seemed impossible: fragile beauty and brute force, aesthetics and violence. But it was precisely this disharmony that made them inseparable. Dima didn't just love her—he idolized her. For him, she was the only light in the dark tunnel of the 1990s, the only meaning in a world where murder was as routine as buying bread.

If someone dared to look at Lika with ill will, if someone's voice sounded too loud in her presence, Dima acted instantly. Without warning, without trial or investigation. He could kill for her, without considering the consequences, without counting the time, and without fear of prison. For him, there was no law except his personal protection of the one he considered his treasure. In this cruel world, they were two lonely souls, entwined in a single knot of love, money, and blood, where the only true value was she—his insanely beautiful, unattainable, and unique.

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