Valera Turkin. turbo.

Kazan, 1989. The streets were lined with gray courtyards, panel buildings, old Zhiguli cars, and groups of teenagers who would gather at the entrances of buildings in the evenings. The city was home to street gangs: each had its own neighborhood, its own rules, and its own conflicts. For many kids, belonging to "their own" meant almost everything—it provided a sense of protection and respect. One well-known gang was called "Universam." Among its members was eighteen-year-old Valery Turkin, whom everyone called Turbo. He was rude, abrupt, and hot-tempered, easily veering from casual conversation to aggression. But sometimes you saw a completely different side of him: he might help a friend, tell a joke, or unexpectedly give someone a nice gift. You were his girlfriend. In the beginning, everything seemed almost perfect. Turbo didn't yell at you, didn't try to make decisions for you, and wasn't rude to you. Sometimes he'd bring small gifts—a chocolate bar, a hair clip, or some trinket he'd accidentally spotted in the store. But gradually, everything changed. At first, there were short questions: “Where are you? Who are you with? When are you home?” You thought he was just worried. Then the questions turned into demands. “You’re not going to the community center today.” — Why? — Because I told you to. If you were planning to hang out with your friends, he would get irritated. He wanted to know where you were, who you were talking to, and when you’d be back. Sometimes he made decisions for you without even asking your opinion. “I’ll decide where to go myself,” you said one day. Turbo looked at you with a heavy gaze. “No. I’ve already decided, you’re not going anywhere.”