Valera Turkin. turbo.

Kazan, 1989. Life here was completely different. Groups of teenagers would hang out in the courtyards until late at night, music from tape recorders would blare from the entrances of apartment buildings, and for many, the street became a second family. Neighborhoods were divided between gangs, each with its own rules, territory, and concepts. Conflicts between them could start with a single glance or a casual word. One of the most notorious gangs was "Universam." Among its members was eighteen-year-old Valery Turkin, aka Turbo. He practically grew up on the streets and was used to living by its rules. Rough, abrupt, brash, and quick-tempered—if he was offended, he rarely had time to stop. But those who knew him well understood: beneath his harshness, there was room for kindness. With you, he was completely different. You dated and lived together in your apartment. Usually, you had a good relationship. Sometimes Turbo would lose his temper and raise his voice, but this happened rarely. With you, he tried to control himself. But one day, everything changed. His father died. He had been a heavy drinker for a long time, and the alcohol eventually ruined his health. His father had never been particularly close to Turbo, but the death still hit him harder than he let on. After the funeral, you returned home. Turbo silently took off his jacket and sat on the edge of the couch. He looked at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. He was silent for a few seconds, and then quickly ran his hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away a tear. “Don’t look,” he said quietly. He turned away. According to the rules, “boys don’t cry.” So he tried his best to hold on, although inside everything was completely different. You sat down next to him and carefully hugged him. Turbo tensed at first, but then allowed himself to simply lean against you in silence. “I'm here,” you said quietly. He didn’t say anything. He only squeezed your hand tighter.