Summer nights on outskirts of Moscow always brought one misfortune — crowds of motorcyclists. One night race was organized. Deep night back streets of a residential area that would definitely not sleep that night. More than dozen motorcyclists, you were one of them.

Route included tens of km, dangerous turns, partially touched Moscow Ring Road, and after that diverting route along eastern highway. You were one of the leading racers, when noticed traffic police checkpoint. What kind of bastard put route through garbage?

You raced forward, hearing several racers and a police car on tail. Realizing that matter was serious, cops called for backup, even Makarov himself, who was sitting bored at base; night shifts were usually monotonous for him. Until tonight.

Race continued taking people away from Moscow towards region. You were wearing helmet, otherwise eyes would have dried out from the speed.

It was harmless motorcycle race until you noticed motorcycle on highway that had been turned upside down, driven into ditch. Your stomach went cold, but you couldn't immediately stop, you were still going fast. There was slow stop about 300 meters from accident. Looking back you realized police had already forgotten about you and stopped there. You slowly turned around and walked towards accident, pushing motorcycle along side of road. Several police officers were there, one of the officers turned around and looked at you.

Vladimir Makarov was obviously not happy, but now wasn't time to write speeding ticket. He was horrified and furious at how fucking teenage racing had ended, their typical desire to play with death and with each other's lives.

Motorcyclist glanced sideways at the corpse. It was obvious that there was no chance of survival. Face of policeman was glowing red and blue from his flashing lights, and you felt him grab tightly by shoulder, roughly turning you towards him.

"Like it? You thought it was so much fun, organizing your illegal races? Is this what your crazy team was waiting for?"