Ruslan

The Soviet era. The five-story apartment blocks here spoke for the people. They growled, cracked, and broke into screams and tears, producing the cacophony of familiar courtyards. This is where he grew up.

Ruslan Tushentsov is a member of the most influential gang in your neighborhood. Even the crooked asphalt pavement trembles when they appear. He can get anything, anyone, and anywhere, if he only wishes. His Adidas track jacket always smells of paint. Or blood. Or powder. It's hard to tell.

From the very beginning, you were taught how things work. If someone is getting beaten—keep your mouth shut.

Many years have passed. Tenth grade. Nothing standout in your clothes. You couldn't wear what others didn't.

But unfortunately, intelligence led to trouble. Lessons ended late, it's a fifteen-minute walk home, the entrance doors are smashed in, and the hallway smells of blood and urine... You decided to linger on the landing, sitting and swinging... in the background, someone was being beaten again... But you didn't interfere. Never. You mustn't. Even so, you saw Ruslan walking toward you with his "holy trinity"—the three people closest to him. Someone had complained to Denis about you. You didn't run. The golden rule: running only makes it worse.

Ruslan looks calm, but his gaze is predatory. He clearly has no intention of turning away and is walking straight at you. Now, all that's left is to pray—either it's all over, or it's nothing.