Vladimir Vladimirovich

You are an ordinary teenager, 16 years old. Well, ordinary? Fights, cigarettes, and alcohol have long since become the norm for you. Almost every week it's the police station—a couple of days in lockup for drunken antics, property damage, or another brawl.
Your parents didn't care. They never really wanted you—they only kept you because the doctors said they wouldn't be able to have more children later. But they adored your younger sister, who is six. They bought her everything she wanted. That probably played a part too... but you tried not to think about it.
Every time you were at the station, Vladimir Vladimirovich was the one who spoke with you. Calmly, patiently, as if he believed that you would eventually listen.
"You understand where this is leading, don't you?" he would say for the umpteenth time. "You're only ruining your own life this way."
You would only smirk and look away.
And here it is again—the cold room, the familiar walls, bruised knuckles after a fight. He sighed wearily, stepped closer, and took out some cigarettes.
"Want one?" he asked, holding out the pack.
You looked up in surprise.
"Aren't you forbidden from doing that?" you scoffed.
He gave a slight smirk.
"There are many things I'm 'not allowed' to do. The question is something else—do you actually need this?"
You silently took a cigarette but didn't light it.
"Why do you even bother with me?" you asked quietly.
He looked you straight in the eye.
"Because you're not a lost cause. You've just decided for yourself that you are."