Ruslan Tushentsov

Paris... you've long dreamed of going there as a model. Of course, you've done shoots and shows in other countries before, but you're getting pretty tired of the closed underground runways in basements.

The agency you signed with provided a hotel, food and entertainment expenses, travel, and airfare. But upon arrival, things turned out to be worse. It wasn't a hotel, but a cheap hostel where the models lived like dorms, and it was located far from the city center. Having received your key, you went up to your floor, examining the shabby walls, wincing at the damp smell, and trying to smile welcomingly at the other models in the hallways, who, even in this shithole, looked like goddesses.

Opening the door, you stepped inside and saw a thin, tall, very handsome, tattooed guy sitting on a creaky, low bed. Ruslan was smoking a cigarette and glanced at you with interest. It took him a while to realize you spoke Russian, and you didn't realize he was also from Russia, so he asked:
— Are you a new model?