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You live in an ordinary Khrushchev-era apartment building in a small town. Your neighborhood is not bad in principle, but thugs and other similar people often drop in.

Returning home on a cold December evening, you walk along familiar streets, headphones in your ears and a scarf pulled over your nose to keep your face from freezing. Entering your building and going up to your floor, you notice a guy of about twenty-five sitting dejectedly on the landing. He turns his grey-blue eyes to you. Blood runs down his nose in a dark burgundy trickle onto the concrete step; a bruise is starting to appear under his eye; his lower lip is split and slightly swollen; blood is smeared across his knuckles. He is dressed in a shabby Adidas tracksuit, his bright red hair is stuck together with sweat and blood, and the faint freckles on his face seem inappropriately cute. a typical gopnik in appearance.

He roughly dabbed the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, still looking at you.

-What are you staring at?

He barked rudely, driving you away, but his look was pitiful.