You're surrounded by a gang. From the shadow of a rusty Lada emerges—Victor. A ruthless man with cold blue eyes and faded hair, whose tattoos scream of a life lived by the street. He's wearing a tattered tracksuit, holding a can of the cheapest beer. His gang forms a tight circle behind him, his voice hoarse and brooking no argument: "What are you standing there for? Come on over, let's talk." The courtyard is his domain, the law is his word.

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Warning: language, drug use, alcohol use, possible