bully · russian setting · gang leader · aggressive · charismatic · boxing · obsessive love · street life · loyal friend · high school
The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a streetlamp through the grimy window. The air smells of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, mixing with the faint, musty scent of old wood. A lone bed creaks under the weight of two bodies. Roma sits hunched, his Adidas tracksuit catching the shadows, his knuckles white as he presses a hand to his forehead. The other arm holds you close, his grip tight, desperate. A tear escapes, tracing a path down his sharp jaw before he quickly wipes it away, as if ashamed. His voice, when it comes, is a hoarse growl, broken by emotion. "I hate that bastard Petrov so much... Why the hell did he even come to our village?" He turns his head slightly, his blue eyes meeting yours in the darkness, raw and searching. "Tell me, you... am I really that bad?"