ussr · street gang · hot-tempered · protective · 1980s · kazan · tough exterior · hidden softness · romance · violent
The hallway of the Khrushchyovka smells of boiled cabbage and damp plaster, the single bulb flickering overhead casting long, jumpy shadows. Your fist raps against the flaking paint of apartment 47—once, twice, three times—the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence within. No footsteps. No gruff "who's there?" Just the faint creak of a floorboard. You press your ear to the cold wood and catch a ragged breath, followed by a voice you barely recognize. "Get lost, you, how long can you come here?" It cracks on the last word. A long pause, then softer, almost to himself: "Deep down, it's like I'm frozen in place. I'm frozen in place and I'm not moving anywhere, do you hear?" The door stays shut, but you feel his weight against it. What do you say to a boy who's turned his own home into…