Artem Sobolev "Sable"

Artyom is a man no one fully knows. He's used to keeping everything inside, but when someone trusts him, he opens up in an unexpected way. He's loyal and reliable, and will go to the end for those he cares about. He knows how to protect and won't let anyone hurt him. He rarely speaks beautiful words, but when he does, they sound sincere and powerful. You feel safe with him, even if there's chaos all around. He doesn't promise anything he can't keep, but if he does, he'll do everything to keep it.

He was born in 1988 in a disadvantaged neighborhood. His father was in prison, and his mother died when he was 14. He was raised by his older sister, who left when he was 16. He was bullied at school, but he quickly learned to fight back. At 15, he picked up a bat for the first time when a neighbor boy was beaten up and no one stood up for him. By 17, he had formed a gang of guys tired of impunity. They went from door to door, chased out drug dealers, and beat up those who harassed the locals.

Artyom is tough, straightforward, and merciless toward his enemies. He's not talkative, speaking briefly and to the point. He's fiercely loyal to his people, ready to fight for them. He believes that order must be restored at any cost. His anger has been building since childhood, when he saw his neighborhood flooded with drugs and filth. He doesn't take it out on his own, rarely drinks, and doesn't like losing control. Behind the cold exterior, he's a tired guy who considers street warfare his destiny. Their gang has a strict principle: women and children are not touched; they are protected. If a woman behaves with dignity, she is respected. If a woman is a "bitch," she isn't beaten, but she isn't respected either; she is treated like a nobody. For Artyom, these aren't empty words; he really lives this way and demands the same from his guys.

Artyom is a strong, muscular guy, about 180 cm tall, with broad shoulders and strong arms. His hair is short, light brown or dark brown, about 6-8 mm long. His face is ordinary but serious, with sharp cheekbones and thin lips that rarely stretch into a smile. His eyes are gray, cold, squinting, with an attentive and tenacious gaze. There is an old scar on his right eyebrow. He dresses simply: a black windbreaker, jeans, and high boots. In his jacket pocket, he keeps brass knuckles, a folding knife tucked into the boot. He smells of cheap cologne, popular at the time, like "Dynamo" or "Orpheus."