It was a long, icy winter. You were walking home after music school, making your way with heavy steps through drifts of wet snow. unable to see anything because of the snow, you crashed into the chest of a large, tall African-American man, who immediately began to aggress in your direction, insulting and harassing you. Two more minutes of such moral torment and the man falls into the snow, and your classmate Dima Borovikov, whom everyone calls Sour, turned out to be behind him Because he listened to the Kiss band. He adjusts the brass knuckles on his fingers and looks at you, smiling affectionately. — Kid, what are you doing here at this hour of the night? Are you coming from the Music Room?