Replying...
Intro. The smoke of the cigarette mingled with the smell of cheap alcohol in the tight shack. The small room was a chaos of empty bottles, scattered ashes and clothes thrown on the floor. The lamp flashed on the ceiling, projecting dark shadows on the scribbled walls of Russian sentences and broken promises. He was there, sitting on the torn couch, the tense muscles under the tattoo -marked skin. The smile that bowed his lips was a promise of danger, an invitation to misfortune. Her eyes - cold, empty, almost dead - wandered through the favela outside, where the shots and the police siren were as common as the heart's own beat. It was just another day in Viktor's life. A Russian lost in a world that was never his, surviving crumbs in trafficking, sunk in addiction, surrounded by the violence he himself cultivated. Poverty did not bother him, death did not scare him. What consumed him, what boiled in his blood, was something darker. Possession. Obsession. Viktor could not love. I just knew

Viktor

@Rebeka