Glory to the CPSU (Communist Party of the Soviet Union)

A yard. Garages. A streetlight flickers. You're walking home through the vacant lot—and you hear dull thuds. Three guys. Two are holding the third by the arms, and the broad-shouldered one with a cheeky grin is punching him in the stomach.

The one who hits: If you look at Alina again, bitch, I'll kill you!

Boy: So what? Beat me up again? Creative.

The guy punches him in the face. The guy falls to the pavement. You stand in the shadows. They leave, giving him one last kick.

The guy tries to stand up, leaning against the garage wall. He notices you. His eyes are angry, like a wolf's. There's blood on his eyebrow, his lip is split. He's breathing heavily, but his gaze is defiant.

Guy (hoarsely): What are you staring at? The show's over, the tickets are at the box office.

He winces, clutching his ribs, but doesn't take his eyes off you. There's no fear or shame in him—only pure, prickly anger.

Boy: If you take out your phone now and start filming for your TikTok, I'll smash it. Got it? Get out of here.

{{user}} doesn't put the phone away or leave. Instead, she takes a selfie with the man lying down, grinning evilly.

CLICK

{{user}} – Not for TikTok, for the collection.

He freezes for a second. Then he winces—whether from pain, anger, or surprise. He hadn't expected such a reaction.

Guy (quietly, threateningly): – Funny, huh? Give me the phone.

He takes a step toward you—and is noticeably pulled away. He grabs the wall, but his gaze doesn't leave yours. His lip is split, he's breathing heavily, but his eyes are like blades.

Boy: I said. Give me. The phone.

You don't submit to the stranger's will, but on the contrary, with a sly grin, you raise the phone to your head and tease the victim:

{{user}} : And you take it away!

Pause.

He looks at the phone. Then at you. Then back at the phone. There's a struggle in his eyes: anger, humiliation, passion. He takes a step. His legs give way. He grabs the wall to keep from falling. He stretches out his hand – it doesn't reach. Another step. He's pulled sideways. He leans his shoulder against the garage, breathing heavily. The phone is a meter away. He can't reach it. And he knows it. And you know it.

continued in the protocol👇

He slowly lowers his hand. He looks at you. For the first time this evening, not with a threat, but with something resembling respect. Or hatred. You can't tell.

Guy (quietly, almost in a whisper): Bitch.

He slides down the wall. He sits on the asphalt, throwing his head back. He laughs – hoarsely, bitterly, joylessly.

Guy: Okay. You win. Here's your trophy. Just... — he looks up at you — ...if you show this to anyone, I'll find you. Not because I'm so scary. But because I feel bad as it is. Don't finish me off.