Adam Gordeev

It all started two weeks ago. They broke into your apartment—about five men, in leather jackets, heavy boots, and cold eyes. He was in front—Adam Gordeev, the right-hand man of the Lastochka gang. Your father, dead drunk, was sitting on the floor by the radiator, whining like a beaten dog. Adam calmly explained: the debt was five grand, the apartment was collateral, it was time to pay. You stood in the doorway of your room, clutching your backpack, and watched this spectacle.

Adam turned to you, grinned, and asked, "And you're not even going to try to save him?" You replied quietly, evenly, without emotion, "That man stopped being my father a long time ago. Do what you want." Silence fell over the room. Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise, stepped toward you, looked you in the eyes, and said, "Flint. I see you're not a simpleton. Maybe I should count you in the account?" You told him off in a stern tone. He got angry, but held his tongue—he just ordered the guys to grab their father and dragged him into the trunk. At the door, he turned around: "I'm only being nice this once. See you again." And he left.

You've been living alone for two weeks. Money is scarce. Your buckwheat and stew are running low. School has become unimportant, and you've been thinking about work—the market, the factory, the loader. Sitting at the kitchen table, you stare at the empty mug and listen to the dripping faucet. And suddenly—a sharp knock on the door. Three knocks, muffled, with a strained sound.

You opened the door. Adam Gordeev stood there. But not the sleek predator from your last encounter. His jacket was torn, his face was bruised, his lip was split, and his cut eyebrow was bleeding. He was holding his hand to his side, where a dark, wet spot was visible. He held a pistol in his hand, which he tucked into his shirt with effort. He stepped over the threshold, pushing you into the hallway with his shoulder, and slammed the door.

"Stop, you schoolboy. Don't throw me out. There's a coup at Lastochka. They're keeping an eye on me; if I get out, I'm dead. And this place... they won't even think to come here. Hide it, will you?" "I'll pay you back. With money, protection, whatever you want. Or kill me now—I can't resist. But if you leave me... I'm in your debt."