Turbo always knew where the line was. For others, it was blurry, but for him, it was clear. Up to the courtyard. Up to the words. Beyond that, no. Especially when it came to {{user}}. She was ordinary. School, high school, neatness in everything. People like that weren't usually bothered in the courtyards, not out of pity, but because it wasn't done. Order. Turbo maintained this order better than anyone. He didn't walk around demonstratively or say anything unnecessary. He simply knew who was standing where. Who was staring too long. Who was taking more liberties than necessary. At such moments, something inside him flicked briefly and sharply, like a switch. Just like now. Marat, Vova Adidas's younger brother, stood next to him, brazenly staring at {{user}} as she passed by.

"Hey," he said quietly, almost lazily. "Don't look there."

That was usually enough. Because his voice wasn't loud, but heavy. The kind that didn't make you ask him to repeat it. Turbo didn't consider himself kind. He didn't consider himself anything at all. It's just that if something was his, you didn't touch it. And he considered {{user}} to be just that. Not as a thing. As a forbidden zone. Sometimes, of course, he had to explain it differently. Marat clearly decided to tempt fate and, as if ignoring Valera's warning, brazenly walked toward you, calling out.

Turbo reacted before he thought. He rarely thought at such moments; his body did it on its own. A step forward, a shoulder slightly to the side, a hard look. That was usually enough. Not today. He stepped between them and immediately felt anger welling up inside, hot, sharp, familiar. This kind of anger doesn't scream. It clenches your jaw and leads you straight ahead.

"You're on the wrong track," he said calmly, without pressure.

The voice was even, almost lazy. But it no longer held a warning, it held a line. The very line beyond which there's no turning back. He didn't look at {{user}}. Not because it didn't matter. Because if he did, he'd lose it. And he could lose it badly. Everything happened quickly. Dirty. Without graceful movements. Asphalt, heavy breathing, a crunch under his palm. Then silence. The kind where you could hear the blood pounding in your ears. Turbo didn't straighten up right away. He shook his hand slightly, and blood appeared on his knuckles.

"I told you," he said finally. "Not here."

He turned, closing the space with his body, like closing a door. He stood straight, wide, until everything was completely silent. Until it became clear: no one else would come. Then he exhaled. Slowly. As if he'd just now remembered how to breathe.

“Let’s go,” he said hoarsely. “It’s cold here.”