He arrived at our entrance around nine in the morning, this wiry guy with a hideous purple fringe. I think his name was Ilya.

The red four-hundred-cubic Kawasaki under Ilya growled menacingly. My parents aren't wealthy or influential enough to buy a motorcycle and bail me out if I hit a pedestrian. So, I couldn't afford a motorcycle. It's rare for a school kid to earn decent money, and I had just finished my eleventh grade.

Sitting on the bench, I watched as Ilya parked his Kawasaki in the tiny spot where only Semenych's rusty old "Zhuchka" barely fit before. I saw Ilya flick his fringe off his forehead with a girlish gesture. I listened as vigilant Marina Savelyevna, walking with her one-year-old grandson, asked him who he was and what he was doing there.

During the conversation, Ilya smiled and spoke politely, all sickeningly proper, like a knight from some romance novel. But Katya said that on the night he hit an old man at the crosswalk, he spoke very differently.

"I'm here for Katya Pimenova, I'm her boyfriend. I want to take her for a ride around the city," Ilya said. "Yes, I have a license. I just turned eighteen and got it. Don't worry, I know how to drive."

I didn't like people who bragged at every opportunity, and Ilya reeked of boasting. The expensive new motorcycle, the smug "I have a license," "I know how to drive." If he lived in our neighborhood, he'd quickly be taught humility. And how to drive properly, too.

The path from the "parking spot" to the entrance where I sat was straight, and I didn't lose sight of Ilya for a moment as he walked. I noticed the earring in his ear (what's it doing there? In a serious fight, someone will rip it out), and the bulging wallet in his jeans pocket. In this day and age when everyone uses cards? He probably carries it for show, and it's probably stuffed with five-thousand ruble notes to impress girls. Or to throw bills on bloody bodies.

I also saw the bruised knuckles—looks like he sometimes has to defend his fringe. And judging by the lack of bruises on his smug face, he knows how to fight. Not scary, I can fight too.

"Will you handle it yourself, Artur?" my friend sitting next to me asked quietly. I didn't have time to answer: Ilya was already close, and I stood up to block his path.

"Where are you rushing off to, kid? Come on, hold on a second. I've never seen you around here before. Which neighborhood are you from, and what are you doing here?"

The guy hesitated, shifting his gaze from me to Oleg, who also got up from the peeling bench.

"From downtown," he answered uncertainly. "To Katya."

"Oh, I know people from downtown think our neighborhood is bad," Oleg said. "I've heard they say you can get mugged here even during the day, have your groceries taken, or even get your face smashed."

"So why do they keep coming here?" I asked, not taking my eyes off Ilya's face.

"I think they like it. They believe thrills make life more exciting."

"I urge you to refrain from rash actions," the guy replied firmly and politely. That finally infuriated me. Too cleanly polite to be genuine. Katya said that night he was swearing, screaming, drunk, and completely impolite.

"How many hours did you spend in front of a webcam shoving a shampoo bottle up your ass to buy your Kawasaki with donations from grateful viewers?" I asked less politely.

The guy turned pale and clenched his fists. I grinned nastily.

"Did your mom teach you how to earn money?"

A fist shot forward, grazing my lip—I barely dodged. Before he could strike again, I stepped forward, wrapping my arm around his neck from behind. All he could do was clutch at my clothes and swing blindly.

My hand moved faster than a snake. My index and middle fingers fished out Ilya's wallet from his pocket. A slight flick of my wrist, and the loot flew into the flowerbed.

"Get off me already!" I push the guy away. He's smaller and weaker than me, so the shove sends him stumbling back to the entrance door. "If you're here for Katya, then go to Katya. Why are you bothering me?!"

He glares at me with a wild look but doesn't attack again. He turns around, touches the intercom with a magnetic key, and goes inside.

"Katya got him a key pretty quickly," Oleg smirked. "By the way, why is she dating him after that accident?"

"Money," I say cautiously and slowly. "And a ticket to a better life. Many want to leave this neighborhood, but everyone finds their own way."

I touch the scrape on my lip. There's blood on my finger.

No one is watching us—the old lady with the child went to the neighboring yard, either after seeing the fight or even before Ilya lunged at me. You can't see us from the entrance windows—we're standing right under the awning. The mighty poplar's branches shield us from the neighboring building's view.

I pick up the wallet and take inventory.

"Was it worth it?" Oleg extends his hand. "Losing to some punk with purple hair."

I hand him a thousand. Another five will go to Katya, and here's my earnings—eleven thousand. With my previously earned honest money, it's enough to rent an apartment and finally move out of my stepmother's house, where I'm hated.

I touch my lip again. It's still bleeding, and there's a salty taste in my mouth. At least the tooth isn't loose.

"I don't think seventeen thousand for a scrape is a loss. Consider it like I got paid for throwing the fight."

"Ever thought about becoming a pickpocket full-time?" Oleg suggests again. "You've got talent."

I've seen people who did "that" full-time. But eventually, they all ended up leaving in a barred PAZ bus to a detention center.

I place the wallet with the card and driver's license next to the trash can. I touch my cheekbone—it hurts too. When did he manage to hit it?

"I don't want to do this all the time, and not to those who don't deserve it... Alright, I'll head home for now, clean myself up."

It took about five minutes to treat my lip with chlorhexidine and thick antibacterial ointment. The cheekbone didn't seem swollen, though it throbbed painfully when pressed. Oh well.

I go to my room and collapse onto the bed.

So, it's settled with the apartment—I have enough to rent a studio if someone still rents without a deposit. But I'll need to earn for the second month's rent, food, and clothes. Should I work at a workshop or look for a better job?

My thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. My stepmother stood in the doorway—a disheveled forty-three-year-old woman in a worn-out old robe that reached her knees. I'd be glad if it reached the floor and covered her thin legs with protruding knobby veins.

My father's new wife hated me with fierce hatred. I'm not exaggerating; she almost trembled in my presence. I think it's not primarily because she couldn't have a child with my father while he already had me, and she couldn't undo my birth. I'd bet a hundred that even now she'll find something to criticize.

"At least clean up your room, disgraceful," she muttered as usual. Then she looked closer. "Oh! Already managed to get into a fight somewhere?!"

I was always a disgrace in her eyes. I listened to disgraceful music, my taste in clothes wasn't good enough, and the order in my room wasn't orderly enough. Seriously—all things in their places, no dust. What more does she want?

It feels like my stepmother is always nearby to remember my mistakes. If a plate clinks against another or—God forbid—something breaks, this woman is already a step away: looming over you, yelling to be more careful. Or she gets more worked up—screaming that I'm just a parasite draining her money, nerves, and soul, and when words aren't enough, she reaches for my father's belt, a twisted wet towel, the cord from the slow cooker, and dozens of other things quite convenient for beating teenagers. This treatment continued until I was seventeen, but then I snapped and took away her cord, stripping the skin from her palm where she'd wrapped it around. She didn't try to beat me again.

The only thing I like about this situation is that my sister didn't end up in my place and stayed with our mother after the divorce. But sometimes I feel weak and have the urge to switch roles and lives with her for at least a week.

School was my oasis of calm, but tomorrow I'll walk through its familiar halls for the last time, take my exam, and then there will be a whole summer full of job searching and work itself.

First and foremost, I need to rent an apartment or at least a room where I'll live during my studies and finally breathe easy. More importantly, when I'm at work, I won't be here. That's what I love about summer—you can disappear anywhere, even for the whole day.

"You should at least hang out with some girls," she said again out of habit.

Sometimes I felt like my stepmother was a script with the sole purpose of not letting me live in peace. She spouts rehearsed and worn-out phrases without putting any meaning into them.

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But the next phrase shattered that feeling. The record changed to another tune.

"Listen, I came in for a reason. Semyonych from the third apartment called. He has a nephew who got a motorcycle as a gift—a Suzuki. But he crashed it somewhere, and now it's not working well—some kind of rattle or something. I didn't quite get what's wrong with the motorcycle, but Semyonych says he's willing to pay fifteen thousand to fix it. Ten for you, five for me. What do you say?"

I remember Semyonych. A year ago, this guy decided to clear out his shed, which he called a garage, and among other junk, he pulled out a Minsk motorcycle. The red Soviet marvel had been gathering dust in Semyonych's shed for ages. It might have been there long before I was born. Since Semyonych was all thumbs, the motorcycle, with keys still in the ignition, was headed for the dump, from where Oleg and I retrieved it.

I had pocket money saved from odd jobs at the auto repair shop. I used it to buy a new chain, cleaned the carburetor with Oleg's help, and replaced the tubes. Disassembled, cleaned, lubricated, reassembled.

It took two weeks to fix the iron horse—we had to scrape off rust from parts, paint them, all under Semyonych's watchful eye. And then came the day—the day X—the canister of gasoline already mixed with oil, and we were emotionally ready to burn through all ten liters on the first day. We made circles first around the yard, then, growing bolder, on dusty dirt roads: happy and carefree. We calculated how much the motorcycle was worth now and whether we could sell it to buy two battered ones to fix them and ride together on our own.

We burned all the gas and returned home late in the evening. Happy and content, I went up to the apartment and saw Semyonych waiting for me at the table. The old bastard grumbled "well done," took the key with my stepmother's help, and drove the motorcycle back into his shed. And my father, returning from work close to midnight, scolded us for risking an accident and reminded us that riding a motorcycle without a license is illegal.

That's when I realized that being honest isn't profitable, but being cunning and slippery like Semyonych is quite advantageous. That's when I started practicing pickpocketing. Although I've only used my talent three times, not counting moments during outings with my friends when I would occasionally return their keys and phones.

So about Semyonych—I don't know what happened to the iron horse afterward—either it's still there or it's been sold to someone else. It doesn't matter—I won't deal with that greedy jerk again. If he had given us even five thousand for our work, we would have been slightly ahead and wouldn't have felt such injustice.

"I don't want to."

"Listen, this is money!" my stepmother began heatedly. "Don't you need money? Of course you do! I know you dream of the day you'll move out of here. Or are you afraid I'll cheat you?"

I have a bit more money today, so I need it a bit less. Besides, I don't believe in Semyonych's generosity.

As for my stepmother's honesty, I can't say anything definitive. No matter how she behaved or what our relationship was like, money left in my room—whether in plain sight or in a wallet in the closet—never disappeared or even moved. I could safely keep my earnings without fear of sponsoring her alcoholism. You could fill a whole page with my stepmother's flaws, but she never rummaged through things or took money. Maybe not out of honesty—perhaps she was just waiting for the right opportunity and didn't risk stealing small amounts.

Another thing is that Semyonych might cheat the stepmother and not pay anything. And she won't be too insistent in demanding it — after all, she'll get five, while I'll get a whole ten, which she hates.

"I have a math exam tomorrow," I cut off the stepmother. "Let's talk about the motorcycle after that. In the meantime, find out what brand it is and what's wrong with it."

"Too lazy to find out yourself?"

"Ex-am-in-a-tion," I drawled. "Besides, it's your five on the line."

The stepmother cursed quietly and left, slamming the door. She returned literally half an hour later, after I had made the bed, watched a couple of videos, and more or less pulled myself together.

"The motorcycle is downstairs, waiting for you. Here are the keys," she said, handing me the keys to a Suzuki. "Figure out what's wrong with it yourself."

Figuring I could earn a bit more today, I messaged Oleg to come out and went downstairs. Before leaving, I carefully looked out from the entrance window at the empty courtyard with no sign of the Kawasaki — which meant the smoker had already left.

The Suzuki looked decent, except for a dented fender and a few scratches. In our yard, such a motorcycle looked as out of place as Ilya did.

"Brand new," Oleg said enviously. "You say it runs?"

"Let's check. We're not going to push it to the workshop."

Oleg knew more about bikes than I did because his brother had a small workshop and a few motorcycles of his own. The workshop was a couple of kilometers from our shabby nine-story building.

We got on the motorcycle. As the key holder, I sat in front. While we were riding, there was neither the desire nor the opportunity to talk, but once we got the motorcycle into the empty workshop and started taking it apart, Oleg shared some news:

"Stas Kholov fell asleep. His relatives went to their dacha, came back, and he wouldn't wake up."

I grunted.

Over the past week, a strange illness had appeared — people wouldn't wake up in the morning, and no means could rouse them. Cases had reached dozens. At school, after the last exam, they even held an assembly where they gathered us and instructed us on what to do if you or someone around you felt unwell or looked tired and sleepy. We didn't learn anything new besides "ensure a fresh air supply" and "call an ambulance." It seemed like the school administration was ordered to instruct us but wasn't told exactly what about.

Doctors just shrugged: this illness hadn't existed before, and no one knew how to treat it.

Interestingly, the mysterious illness was raging only in our Krasnoyarsk.

"Stas is that guy from the parallel class?" I scratched my head. "He was always skinny, pale, and kind of sickly. It's not surprising that this new illness got him."

"Actually, you're wrong there," Oleg shook his head. "Maybe he used to be skinny, but when we sat together in the same room for the Russian exam, he looked much sturdier than before, and he broadened in the shoulders as if his parents were feeding him protein shakes round-the-clock."

"Do you think there's a connection between Stas and that video from our gym where some weakling bench-presses two hundred kilograms?"

"Could be," shrugged my friend. "It's all strange."

Of course, it's strange. One of our classmates swore they knew that weakling and that he was also from Krasnoyarsk. Isn't that too many oddities for one city?

After that, Oleg and I didn't talk much — we worked, only taking a break for lunch.

"Will it fit?" I asked once again after we replaced the Suzuki's engine with a weaker one and secured everything properly.

"It'll be fine," Oleg waved off. "It'll run for a bit, and then let them prove it was us who swapped the parts. If you put a Kawasaki engine on some Jawa, it'll fly and soar until the frame gives out. But for a smaller engine, it's actually better — next time, it might avoid an accident. Consider it working for its own good."

"Yeah. So how much will we make?"

"Probably around twelve thousand. We need my brother to take a look at the engine and tell us; I'm not good with prices. Why, do you need money badly?"

"I do. But I would have 'repaired' this motorcycle for free."

We laughed.

We straightened the motorcycle's fender and found the cause of the bad noise — the heat shield on the exhaust pipe vibrated heavily at high RPMs. We fixed the issue in five minutes.

"You could say it's as good as new," I said, patting the seat.

Then we worked on an old beetle car, which had already taken us two months without being fully fixed yet. The beetle had come from Oleg's brother, who definitely wouldn't take it back, so once we got it running, we could call the car ours.

In the evening, the "upgraded" Suzuki got us home without any issues, although it drove a bit slower and roared a bit louder. But there was no rattling — just as requested.

After saying goodbye to Oleg at the entrance, I headed up the stairs, whistling a cheerful tune. At home, I handed the keys to my stepmother, ignored her muttering about how I "finally got up and did something," washed up, and went to bed.

What I definitely didn't expect was to wake up a minute later in pain all over my body. And looking around, I realized I wasn't in bed or even in my apartment.