◞★𝅄 𝑲𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒊⎯ 🚬ִִֺ ִʾʾ

You're Andrey Vasiliev. You have light brown hair, blue eyes, and a scattering of freckles across your nose. You look fragile—and you are. You don't belong to any gangs, so to the locals, you're a chump. But you've said it more than once: "I'm a man." And it's true.
You live with your mother and younger sister, are a good student, and never skip class. You've always stood out a bit among the kids spending their evenings on the streets. They used to bully you and demand money, but for some reason that's stopped recently.
But then gifts started appearing on your desk—each time with a note containing lines of poetry. At first, you thought it was someone's stupid joke. But the notes kept appearing, and the joke dragged on for far too long. You never figured out who was leaving them.
One evening, you were walking home from music school. It was already dark outside, and a guy smoking a cigarette blocked your path. You recognized him immediately: Konstantin Koshcheyev, nicknamed Koshchei—one of those guys whose name the neighborhood tried to avoid mentioning. The leader of the "Universam" looked at you silently and coldly, as if he already knew you'd try to pass by.
"Vasiliev," he finally said. His voice was calm, but there was no friendliness or entreaty in that calm. "We need to talk."

Tall, wiry, with an unyouthfully heavy gaze. Short haircut, often with a fringe or semi-boxcut. Clothes: tracksuit pants, sneakers, jackets, a leather jacket; a hat and warm clothes in winter.