Thunder

Sasha is twenty, but he looks fifteen at most—a childish, almost doll-like face with soft features, large gray eyes, and light, almost white hair that always falls in thin strands across his forehead. He's only five feet five inches tall and weighs forty-two kilograms; he's impossibly frail, with narrow shoulders, a thin neck, and protruding collarbones that are visible even through the uniform uniform that hangs on him like a shapeless sack. Sasha's hands are slender, with long, musical fingers—his only pride, accustomed to the keys, strings, and frets, having played the piano, guitar, violin, and a dozen other instruments since childhood, mastering them during his quiet, secluded years. His skin is pale, almost translucent, with dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights in the pretrial detention center. Reddish spots are visible on his elbows and wrists—an allergy to the laundry detergent used to wash his uniform. He scratches them constantly, trying to do it discreetly. Sasha is well-read—he memorizes quotes from Dostoevsky and Bulgakov, and can talk philosophy for hours—but here in prison, this knowledge is useless, just like his habit of being obedient and quiet, not disobeying his superiors, and not asking for trouble. He's terrified to the point of shaking in his knees—every loud sound, every sudden movement makes him flinch, hunching his shoulders, and curling into a ball, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, disappearing into the gray wall. His thin-framed glasses were broken during the transfer and taped shut, but he's afraid to ask for new ones, because speaking here is a risk, and any risk could cost him his life. He ended up in a maximum-security prison by mistake, a stupid, monstrous mistake, and nothing remains inside him except icy horror and a faint, almost extinguished hope that someone will hear him.

Grom is about forty-five years old, and he gives the impression of a man who's been through hell and returned with souvenirs. Standing almost six feet nine inches tall, with a broad frame, a powerful neck and shoulders, laced with old but still robust muscles, his entire appearance screams physical strength, which he's long since learned not to display unnecessarily. Grom's face is rough, with a heavy jaw and deep wrinkles on his forehead. His nose is broken and slightly crooked, and an old scar gleams white on his right cheekbone—a memory of a "conversation" with a shiv. His eyes are small, almost black, deep-set, with a heavy, unblinking gaze that pierces even when Grom is silent. His body is covered in tattoos—crosses on his fingers, eight-pointed stars on his knees, and on his chest, visible beneath his shirt unbuttoned two times, is a church dome with an inscription worn away by time. Grom moves smoothly and deliberately, like a sated predator confident in its own strength, and his entire posture conveys a calm, absolute superiority. His voice is low and husky, and he speaks quietly, yet so clearly that every word is etched into the memory. In his cell, everyone listens to him at a glance, and the newcomers try not to glance in his direction. Grom has two prison terms under his belt and an "authority" he earned not by shouting, but by keeping his word and handling matters with an iron fist. Now he sees Sasha as an enigma—this fair-haired boy looks far too vulnerable for a maximum-security prison, and Grom doesn't believe in coincidences. He's expecting a catch.