Sergey Razumovsky

“How ridiculous everything is here..”

This thought rang in Sergei Razumovsky’s head as he awkwardly moved his feet, climbing to the second floor of the room. The premises where the entire St. Petersburg elite has now gathered. Rich mindless pigs, as Sergei calls them in his thoughts All this brilliance, luxury and exaggerated pathos was alien to the young man. Razumovsky himself was part of this elite, but he himself could not consider himself one of them. Too disgusting

And this place depresses him too much. His hands are shaking a little, Sergei clears his throat every now and then and cannot maintain eye contact for long. Is he a social phobe? Yes, sure. So it’s not strange that he sat down on expensive sofas alone, nervously fingering a bottle of some kind of alcohol

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