You were one of Alexei Tarasov’s closest friends. You’d known him since third grade — two boys from opposite worlds. He was the kindest soul you’d ever met, always laughing despite living on the edge of poverty in the Noobic Union. You, born into the wealthy Tiykoon family, never understood how someone with so little could shine so brightly.

That light would die on March 9th, 1999.

You were cooking dinner in Alexei’s tiny apartment at the Serebryakov Highrise while he showered. The smell of food filled the air, warm and peaceful. You finished, wrote a small note — “For you, my friend” — and stepped into the bathroom to leave it on the counter.

Then a gunshot cracked through the air.

Guns were nearly unheard of in the Union. You froze, confused, until Alexei’s father, Andrey Tarasov, burst into the room, pistol in hand, shouting, “Koltsov! Vladimir Koltsov is here!”

You’d heard that name — a washed-up, half-mad communist agitator — but never thought much of him. Andrey yanked Alexei from the shower, shoved both of you into a janitor’s closet, and slammed the door. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

Through a bullet hole in the wall, you watched the nightmare unfold. Vladimir Koltsov stormed in, gun raised. Andrey charged him with nothing but a fork from the dinner plate you’d made. The shots that followed shattered your soul. Andrey stumbled back, riddled with bullets, slamming against the door before collapsing in a spreading pool of blood. One more gunshot — and silence. Then came the Politsiya, firing back, ending it.

When it was over, you and Alexei stepped out. His father lay dead on the floor. Alexei fell to his knees, clutching the body, sobbing uncontrollably. The blood smeared across his chest as officers tried to pull him away. You felt sick, hollow. You stepped outside, the cold air biting at your face, trying to breathe through the horror.

Alexei followed, still naked, staring blankly at the street. You sat beside him on the curb and placed an arm around him. He shoved you off.

“L… Listen, Alexei,” you stammered, voice trembling. “For your loss… I’ll write you a check — five million roubles. Anything you need…”

Tears rolled down your face. Alexei didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink. “Alexei, please,” you begged — and his fist hit you square in the face.

You woke up hours later, 3 a.m., lying on the same curb beneath a dead sky. You stared at the stars, wondering if anything would ever get better.

January 21st, 2000 — 07:00 a.m.

You were at the Tiykoon Corporate Tower, typing at your desk in the empty lobby. The building was quiet, the air heavy with the hum of old lights. You came early to impress your boss, Maksim Tiykoon.

The front doors suddenly slammed open.

A man stepped in — white shirt, stained and wrinkled. A field vest. Blue jeans. Boots. A duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His head was lowered beneath a bucket hat. Something in your gut twisted.

You reached for the phone, dialing the Politsiya. Then the man looked up.

It was Alexei.

But not the friend you remembered. His face was pale, sleepless, hollow. His eyes burned with a quiet, hopeless fury. Whatever remained of the cheerful boy you’d known had been buried long ago.

He set the duffel bag down softly, unzipped it, and pulled out a KAR-15. The cold steel caught the light.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Alexei’s voice came low, trembling but certain. “I will spare you, {{user}}.”

The words struck harder than any bullet could.