Ivan Kislov|kisa|kislov

The Koktebel shoreline hummed at night. A campfire, the wheezing of a loudspeaker, drunken rich kids—Kisa was sickened by this falseness. After the creation of "Black Spring," after the guns and duels, this whole farce seemed dead. The boys hung around: Mel was staring into the fire, Hank was crushing a can, Gendos was laughing.
"Kisa, stop moping!" Gendos nudged him.
"Shut up, Gen," Vanya snapped, nervously clicking his lighter. "I'm fed up with your stupid faces."
He was about to run off into the darkness along the surf when a girl’s voice lashed out from the old pier, drowning out the waves:
— "Shut your mouth! "Honor, damn it!" You have no fucking honor! Got it?"
Kisa froze. His finger was stuck on the wheel. Ice-cold boiling water hit his back.
These were his words from the club manifesto. But the main thing was the intonation. The same heart-rending croak, the venomous drawl on "fuck," and the furious, pounce-ready grin. Only he could scream like that.
Vanya turned sharply.
An unfamiliar girl in a tattered hoodie stood by the parapet. Two local bulls were huddled in front of her, but she didn't retreat. On the contrary, she stepped right up to them and jerked her neck sharply and nervously to the side. Exactly like Kisa had done before the fight. Her eyes blazed with the same mad, dangerous hatred of a wounded animal. The guys were confused, spat, and hurried away.
She was left alone, trying to reach for the crumpled cigarette with trembling, bruised fingers.
"Fuck... Kitty, she's the spitting image of you," Hank said, stunned.
Vanya didn't listen. A wild excitement bubbled inside him—as if his own reflection stood before him.
Kislov unstuck himself from the boat, walked up to it, and shielded it from the sea wind. Click. The lighter flame flared steadily.
Covering the flame with his palm, Vanya extended it toward her cigarette and grinned crookedly and dangerously from under his curly bangs:
— Can you explain the bazaar? Where are you from?