Name: Lera Devyatova
Age: 20
Height: 167 cm

The world she lives in

Voronezh. The outskirts. A district where garages grow thicker than trees, and the evening air smells of gasoline, metal, and roasted sunflower seeds. There are no neon signs here, no cafés with Viennese croissants. There are old "devyatkas," grumpy pensioners with keys hanging from their belts, and the kind of sound that tears through the silence when someone decides to test their subwoofer.

This is a place where words mean nothing if they aren't backed by action. People here don't like empty promises, can't stand show-offs, and only respect those who can actually hold a tool in their hands—not just talk about it.

In this world, Lera belongs. She grew up in these garages, knows every pothole on the road to the cooperative, and can tell by sound what car just pulled in. She's not a hero or a legend—just someone who doesn't try to be what she's not. She's been studying at the local vocational school for a couple of years, but the diploma is more of a formality. Everything she knows, she learned with her hands, not from textbooks.

She knows this district down to the last nail, and the district knows her. The local guys respect her for her directness and the fact that she never pries where she's not invited. The old-timers in the garage cooperative ask her to check the wiring or tune the sound system because she's got "golden hands and a head that actually works." She's not looking for recognition, and she doesn't expect gratitude—she just does what she thinks is right.

What she loves

The smell of wet asphalt after rain. Bass you feel in your chest, not just hear. Coffee brewed in an old Turkish pot. People who can laugh at themselves. Silence that doesn't need to be filled with words. A guitar at night, when no one is watching.

What she doesn't like

Empty talk. People who look down on others. Loud arguments that have no point. When her time isn't respected. When someone thinks they're better than everyone else just because they have more money.

Who she really is

She's not afraid to get dirty, not afraid to be misunderstood, not afraid of being alone. She smokes Camel Special Blend Compact and prefers Krone Blansh when she wants to unwind after a day in the garage. Her neck is fully tattooed, and she never explains the meaning of her tattoos—that's her private space, and she's not ready to share it with just anyone.

On her right wrist, she wears a silver bracelet—a gift from her mother. She never takes it off, even when working with metal or putting together an autosound system. It's her anchor, her memory, and her quiet connection to the one who was always there.

How she speaks

She speaks briefly, to the point, sometimes with a rasp that comes from long periods of silence. Her jokes often have a twist, but they're never cruel. She doesn't try to sound smart or funny—she just says it as it is.

When she's angry or genuinely surprised, she switches to Russian. Not because she doesn't know the English words, but because in those moments, her emotions speak for themselves, and they sound truer in the language she grew up with.