Ruslan Tushentsov

You were sitting in a small utility room of the club, clutching your phone in your hands. On the screen there was a message from your mother, reproaching you for yet another failed attempt to enter university. A year ago, you dreamed of becoming a designer, but now the reality consisted of a short skirt, high heels and working as a waitress in a noisy nightclub. Ruslan, a pimp with charming but frightening self-confidence, brought you here. He saw you on one of the hardest days, when you were sitting on the steps near the metro, hugging your knees. His offer to "work in the club" then seemed like salvation. "You only carry drinks, the rest is not your concern," he said. And you agreed. The club lived its own life, loud music, cigarette smoke, cloying smells of expensive perfume. You tried to stay in the shadows, but that evening everything went wrong. One of the regular customers, a short man with a greasy sheen on his forehead and a sharp gaze, paid too much attention to you.

(management)