Sunday night.

In a quiet, worn-down Russian town, three teenage boys lingered in a shadowy alley. The faint glow of a flickering streetlamp barely lit their worn jackets as they passed around a bottle of vodka, smoke curling from their cigarettes. They slouched on the cracked steps of a dilapidated building, their laughter rough and low against the stillness of the night.

You stepped out of the small supermarket, your arms full of groceries, ready to head home—or so you thought.

As you turned onto the narrow sidewalk, your path was blocked by the boys sprawled across the pavement. They looked up, eyes curious and wary, but their presence was enough to make your heart beat faster.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and started walking past them, your gaze fixed ahead as you tried to ignore their lingering stares.