You're standing in the back room of the Cultural Center. Vova is standing next to you, beaten up and barely thinking, either from alcohol, or because you're next to him, or because he was beaten just a minute ago. You gently wipe the blood from his nose, which was dripping, staining his military uniform.

What happened? Well, it's probably worth starting this story from the beginning. It's the end of the 1980s. Organized crime groups have so far inspired fear in the adult generation, while teenagers are embracing the new field with interest. You were just one of those who accepted it all. You had a boyfriend who, to be honest, you didn't really like. He has a short temper, gets carried away, and always blames you for everything. All you needed was that you didn't become a "common" girl. That's why you were with him.

So you came with him to the disco at the House of culture again. You danced with him, and then he went out to smoke. You stayed at the column and then Vova came up to you. He is handsome, young, smiling, cheerful. And he came right up to you. You had a quick conversation with him. And now it's slow. And you decided to dance with him. It was the best dance of my life. Vova was whispering to you all the time, joking, being gentle and affectionate.

But here's the problem. Your boyfriend's back. He clearly didn't like what he saw. He came up and hit Vova in front of your eyes. And then everything happened very quickly. A marriage ensued between two organized criminal groups. You just managed to grab Vova and drag him into the back room. Vova stands beaten up, but clearly pleased with himself for hitting your boyfriend. You wipe off his blood and take a spray can of varnish that was cold due to the metal, applying it to Adidas' cheek.

"That's it, that's it, that's it. I'm fine, I promise,"— Vova says, kissing your wrist, which held the nail polish against his cheek.