Chapter 7

Age 6

Pa-ram-pam-pam! I recently turned six! And if you add in the thirty years from my past life – that’s quite the age already! I had a modest celebration, though. My parents suggested inviting a bunch of my closest friends from the neighborhood. They expected about twelve kids to show up. But I only invited one – Dan. He lived two floors below me in our building. My parents also invited some neighbors, who brought their kids along, but that’s beside the point.

In my past life, Dan had been my classmate. The plan was for things to remain the same in this life. We got along well, even though he wasn’t particularly sociable. Even at six years old, Dan was noticeably behind the other kids in terms of social skills, always keeping to himself. Maybe we were friends because I was just as weird back then, too?

One way or another, our friendship in school gradually faded, and by the time we reached the tenth grade, I had become one of the cool kids while Dan was practically an outcast. That same year, Dan ran away from home and went missing. A little while later, they found his body in the river.

This time, I wasn’t going to let that happen. I made it my mission to break him out of his shell, toughen him up, and boost his confidence. I had already done something similar back in prison with one of the new inmates. The results back then exceeded all expectations. With Dan, it should’ve been much easier since I was starting early. Maybe this was the purpose of my reincarnated life? To save an old friend, who might become a great person in the future? But even if not, I was still determined to see it through.

By the way, you may have noticed that I mentioned living in a high-rise apartment building and not in my grandfather's house, where my parents had planned to move after leaving Tashkent. What can I say – the butterfly effect. But let’s take things step by step.

First of all, I'm proud to announce that my father actually bought Rustam's car. My parents left about a thousand rubles in their bank accounts and used the rest to pay for the brand-new "Kopeyka" (Lada 2101). A week later, guess what? That's right, the banks froze everyone's savings accounts, allowing citizens to withdraw no more than five hundred rubles. So, my parents ended up losing just a thousand in total. But my dad also sold his motorcycle for about the same amount, so overall, you could say they got pretty lucky.

The following month, as planned, we left Uzbekistan. For the first three years, we lived in my grandfather's house, and then my father was given a two-room apartment in a new building through his service. That's how things went down.

Not much happened in the last few years. I transitioned from a potty to a regular toilet, could eat pretty much anything, and had fully learned to speak. The only issue I had was pronouncing the letter "r," but that was something I would eventually overcome.

What I especially loved about being this age were my days at kindergarten. My parents enrolled me as soon as we moved. You know, most kids hate kindergarten because they’re forced to take naps during the day. They can’t wait to start school, and once they get there, they end up hating that too. In the end, after years of studying, people dream of getting a job, only to find themselves working long hours for peanuts. That's when they finally realize how great it was to take those naps in kindergarten. In my previous life, I eventually understood that too.

This time around, I decided to enjoy everything that carefree childhood had to offer from the start. Delicious borscht for lunch, afternoon naps, games, and holiday performances. But the real highlight wasn’t even all that.

The nanny!

What brought me the most joy, despite having to wake up at seven every morning, was rushing into kindergarten and throwing myself into the arms of our lovely young nanny. I would grab her gently and squeeze as much as I wanted, and she would just smile sweetly. After all, I was little. I didn't understand anything. Of course, my body wasn’t quite ready to respond, but my mind was very much aware. The only downside of my childhood was knowing I’d have to wait at least another ten years for anything resembling intimacy. An eternity, really.

But let’s not dwell on the sad; let’s focus on the useful.

My practical training with Dan began about three months after my birthday. Once all the kids in preschool had settled down from their naps, the teachers would take us outside to play. I mostly rode my skateboard around the building because I wasn’t interested in playing tag or just running around after other kids. When someone else took the skateboard, I had to blend into the crowd, pretending to have fun. Standing off to the side from all those silly kids wasn’t an option; over time, the teachers might start worrying about my aloofness and, God forbid, take some disciplinary action.

For several days in a row, the skateboard had been mine, and I was making my usual rounds. As I thought about a future career as a footballer, I suddenly spotted Dan.

“Give it here!” shouted a kid named Fazan. He was a huge, overgrown boy from a parallel group. I didn’t know his real name, and it seemed hardly anyone did; everyone just called him Fazan. He was twice the size of an average child and almost a head taller. Using his size to his advantage, he constantly bullied others and often brought them to tears. The mothers of the kids he picked on had complained about him more than once.

Trailing behind Fazan were two scrawny little kids—a sign of a future gang in the making. The three of them loomed over Dan, demanding the toy he was tightly clutching.

“It’s mine,” Dan replied uncertainly, lowering his head.

“I want to play with it,” Fazan barked.

“You’ll break it.”

Fazan pushed Dan in the chest. Dan managed to stay upright, but it looked like he was about to cry at any moment. Just then, I rolled up on my skateboard.

“Need something?” I asked, approaching Fazan. His attention shifted to my board.

“Need to ride your skateboard. Hand it over.”

“Not happening,” I replied, turning to Dan. “Listen, Dan, punch him in the face.”

Yes, it was radical, but sometimes standing up for yourself could only be done this way.

Fazan scowled. “I’ll punch you in the face!”

A dilemma. On one hand, it wasn’t right for an adult to hit a six-year-old. On the other, my body was also six, and in front of me was a hulking brute. Who would judge me?

“Dan,” I ignored Fazan’s threat, “it’s not hard to hit back at someone who’s bullying you. Watch. You make a fist like this,”—I demonstrated, curling my fingers—“then you tuck your thumb like this. Swing it and hit.”

With all my might, I punched Fazan in the nose. At first, I considered hitting him in the stomach, but I figured that would just make his belly jiggle. Dan needed a clear demonstration of how to resolve problems like this instantly.

Fazan hit the ground, grabbing his nose and bursting into tears.

“Mommy!” he cried, quickly getting up and running away.

I gestured toward the other two kids, but they wisely decided not to engage and bolted after Fazan.

“Look, he’s already calling for his mommy,” I mocked. “He was just so tough a second ago.”

Was I proud of what I’d done? I liked to think I’d done the right thing. Dan smiled as he watched the others flee.

“Fighting isn’t good,” I lectured. “But now he’ll think twice before bothering someone again. You see? You need to know how to stand up to bullies. Want me to teach you how to hit properly?”

Dan nodded confidently.

That same day, after kindergarten, we met in the courtyard and started our training. My parents let me play outside alone, as long as I promised not to leave the yard. They kept an eye on me from the window.

I showed Dan how to properly make a fist and throw a punch. We focused first on accuracy and strength. He enthusiastically hit my palm—weakly and often off-target, but he was trying. He took it seriously, treating it as something important rather than just a game. Still, he only lasted about half an hour. I decided not to push it; that was enough for a first training session. Besides, he suggested we kick the ball around, which was beneficial for my future in soccer.

I had once regretted that my mom hadn’t enrolled me in soccer as a kid. I planned to rectify that soon. What could be cooler than being a professional soccer player? You’re constantly active, keeping in shape, and you’re famous, adored, and rich. I was determined to achieve the last three points, especially since my skills were already three levels above any other kid. With extra training, I could become the best.

As we kicked the ball around, I noticed my passing was spot on. I even tried to juggle the ball and managed ten consecutive hits. All those leg workouts from an early age paid off. Dan’s passing, on the other hand, was lacking. After receiving another precise pass from me, he swung hard with his toe.

This time, the ball flew further than before and rolled out onto the road. I had no choice but to go after it again. I walked slowly since I was too lazy to run. About ten seconds later, I realized that was a mistake.

A big mistake. I should’ve run.

As I was just a few steps away from the ball, a kid about eight years old rushed up, grabbed it, and took off.

“Hey!” I shouted, but the little thief just picked up speed.

I never expected such bold theft in broad daylight. If it had been something small, I might have shrugged it off and gone home. But this was a soccer ball given to me by my dad—pretty expensive. If the thief thought I wouldn’t catch up, he was mistaken. So, with all my might, I sprinted after him.

Yes, I had to break my promise to my parents not to leave the yard, but this situation needed to be resolved quickly. It seemed I was about to break my record—two confrontations in one day.

I dashed like the wind, quickly closing the gap between us. I thought the thief might throw the ball away in fear, but he clutched it tightly and kept running. He dashed past a neighboring yard and then turned behind a building. The new construction ended there, giving way to an empty lot.

I was just a few meters from catching the little punk when I saw him jump into a van and slam the back door shut. At that moment, I should have realized something shady was going on. An abandoned van parked on the edge of an empty lot, and a little crook trying to hide inside. But I didn’t stop. I ran up to the vehicle, grabbed the handle, and pulled.

Suddenly, a woman came up behind me, wrapped her arm around me, and lifted me off the ground. I barely managed to shout “Hey!” before she opened the back door of the van and climbed in with me.

The van immediately revved up. The woman set me down on a bench against the wall and crouched beside me, smiling sweetly.

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“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she said in a soothing, gentle voice. “We’re going to take you to your mom. She asked us to come get you. Here, have a tasty lollipop.”

The woman reached over to the opposite bench and handed me a lollipop. I turned my gaze to the side. The little thief was sitting in the far corner, grinning cheerfully.

It wasn’t him who was foolish—it was me.

He had played me perfectly, luring me right into a trap. My new fate was taking an unexpected turn. In my past life, I hadn’t left my grandfather’s house until graduation, and I had never played in this yard. Back then, the woman probably snatched someone else. Now, it was my turn to be taken.

Of course, I knew why children were kidnapped. I had read plenty of stories about it, and unfortunately for me, they all ended badly.

I couldn’t find the words to respond to my captor. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have changed anything. I simply took the lollipop in silence and pondered.

I was in deep trouble.

***

We drove for over an hour, and by the time we stepped outside, it was getting dark. Throughout the ride, I remained silent, contemplating my escape options. I acted deliberately calm, hoping the woman would think I trusted her. I even asked if I could play ball with the thief when we arrived, but she refused, saying it was too late for outdoor games.

I considered making a run for it as soon as I got out of the car. But that plan went out the window. When we arrived, a sturdy-looking man opened the back door. He scooped me up and carried me into the house. Escaping his grasp felt impossible. I looked around and felt a rush of anxiety—this place was far from civilization. The property was surrounded by a tall fence, with trees towering on all sides. It seemed to be in the middle of some woods.

My situation was dire. Extremely dire.

The man carried me into the house. The building was old; the wallpaper was peeling in places, and bits of plaster were falling from the ceiling. He led me through a dark hallway and turned into a room. There, on a worn-out couch, sat a balding, skinny guy in his thirties, watching football on a small television.

He set me down on the floor.

“Sit here with Uncle… uh… Gleb for a bit,” said the woman who had followed us into the room.

“Today I’m Gleb!” the man chimed in from the couch. The name clearly came out of nowhere, I thought.

“We’ll go get your mom. You can play with the toys; they’re all for you,” the woman said, pointing to a pile of toys scattered on the floor, which included both cars and dolls. It seemed they didn’t know whether they were kidnapping a boy or a girl, so they had prepared for every possibility. “Keep an eye on our guest,” she instructed Gleb.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the television.

The woman shot a frustrated glance at Gleb, but when she noticed me watching her, she quickly softened her expression and smiled.

“I’m sure your mom will be here soon,” she said, leaving the room and slamming the door behind her. I heard the key turn in the lock. She locked me in, the bastard.

She was probably off to prepare the operating room for me. Time was running out. The only way to keep my kidney—or something even more important—was to escape this room before they came for me.

I looked around carefully. The window could serve as an emergency exit. The sill was wide enough and not too high for me to climb up. I just had to get past Gleb, who, although glued to the football match, would definitely notice if I tried to open the window. Hitting him with something heavy seemed like the best option. But what? The only items in the room were the couch, the TV, and a few scattered toys. The toys were made of lightweight plastic—not heavy enough to do any real damage.

I glanced at Gleb again. If I were older, I could strangle the loser with one hand. As if sensing my gaze, he suddenly turned his head toward me.

“Hey, kid, what’s your name?” Gleb asked, then went back to staring at the screen.

“Rustam,” I blurted out, the first name that came to mind.

“Do you like football, Rustam?”

I moved closer to him, my attention caught by the beer bottle in his hand. An image flashed in my mind of that bottle shattering against his head. All I had to do was wait for Gleb to finish it. Then I could take the bottle, pretend to play, and… I was pretty sure I had enough strength to knock him out with a hit. After all, I had been working on my arms since I was a baby. It was worth a shot. What did I have to lose?

“I do,” I replied, pausing just a moment before answering Gleb’s question. I climbed onto the couch and sat next to him.

“Got a favorite team?” he asked, taking a swig of beer. There was still half a bottle left—half a bottle!

“Dynamo,” I mumbled.

“Now that’s a good choice! Dynamo’s the best! They should be playing in the Champions League final right now! If it weren’t for that stupid exclusion, they’d wipe the floor with all those losers, especially that damn Juventus. See the score? One-one? Ajax will finish them off.”

I stared at the screen, memories flooding back of where I had heard those words before: Juventus, Ajax, Dynamo’s exclusion. And at that moment, I felt a shiver run down my spine. I knew this match! I knew who would win!

In my previous life, I had been a huge football fan. Every week, my colleagues and I would gather to play, and over beers, we often discussed matches from past seasons. I kept up with football news and was well aware of the titles held by the world’s top teams, including Juventus. Even in prison, I had my own team, and we’d beat the neighboring unit in games.

Every self-respecting Dynamo fan knew the team’s successes and failures. One such fan played alongside me in prison as a midfielder. He had shared countless stories about Dynamo, the most heartbreaking being the team’s exclusion from the Champions League in 1995.

That year was marked by scandal when UEFA expelled Dynamo from the tournament for attempting to bribe a referee. The team was banned for two seasons, and those involved were banned from football for life. However, they were reinstated the following year, and the ban was lifted. Fans were outraged—Dynamo had every chance to become champions, as their exclusion was deemed unjust.

“Juventus vs. Dynamo—that’s who should have been in the final!” the prison fan would often tell me. And now, I could watch live as Juventus would win again.

The commentator's voice suddenly quickened—Ajax had created a dangerous opportunity.

“Come on!” Gleb shouted, but Ajax missed. “Damn it! Score already!”

“They won’t score,” I said, recalling the fan’s stories. “No one else will score. It’ll go to penalties. Juventus will win for the second time in history.”

“What the hell are you talking about, kid?” Gleb snapped, getting angry. “I bet a ton of money on Ajax!”

“Serves you right, idiot,” I almost said, but I kept quiet. Suddenly, a flood of new thoughts washed over me, pushing the kidnapping to the back of my mind.

Focus on this: I loved football. I knew the outcomes of all the major matches in various championships. In some cases, I even remembered the scores. What was stopping me from going to a bookmaker and betting any amount on the winner? Exactly—nothing!

For the rest of the match, I thought only about this. I could start making huge money as early as next summer. The European Championship happened every four years, and the next one was set to start in just a couple of weeks. The very same one where Germany would emerge as champions. Incredible!

While I daydreamed about the future, I completely forgot about the present. Meanwhile, the final whistle sounded, signaling a penalty shootout. Gleb cradled his head in his hands, staring at me with wide eyes.

Finally snapping back to reality, I noticed his empty bottle. Perfect. It was time to think about my escape; otherwise, there wouldn’t be anyone left to place bets.

“Ajax can’t score!” the commentator shouted on the TV.

Gleb left the bottle on the couch beside him and covered his mouth with his hands, eyes glued to the screen. I carefully reached out, grabbed the neck of the bottle, and pulled it toward me. Hiding it behind my back, I stood up and leaned against the back of the couch. When Gleb looked my way, I feigned interest in the match, as if my emotions were getting the better of me.

To deliver the strongest blow, I needed to be at least level with his head. I gripped the bottle tighter, swallowed hard, and...

Juventus scored the decisive goal. Gleb suddenly jumped up from the couch, clutching his head.

“Damn it!!! Shit! All of you!”

I quickly hid the bottle behind my back and crouched down. Gleb shot me a look full of anger. He probably thought I was to blame—cursed the game. He moved over to the window and leaned against the sill.

From the hallway, the woman’s voice floated in.

“Gleb, are you okay?”

“Everything’s just great!” Gleb shouted back, seething.

“We’re starting in two minutes!”

“Awesome!” he replied with the same tone.

In two minutes, they were going to take away some organ from me at best. I thought about my parents, who were probably horrified and didn’t know how to find me. I remembered the face of Latifa's mother on the day she lost her child forever. No, I couldn't let my mother suffer like that too.

Hitting Gleb in the head with the bottle probably wouldn’t work well; I’d just make him angrier. I had a better idea. I jumped off the couch, swung the bottle, and smashed it on the floor.

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the room and likely throughout the entire house. Gleb turned sharply and stared at me with frightened eyes.

"What's wrong with you, kid!?"

I stood my ground, holding the broken bottle shard in my hand.

"It was an accident," I tried to say in the most innocent tone, then looked at the shard and offered it to Gleb. Here, take the glass from the kid's hands.

He approached me with an angry expression. Reaching out, and… I swiftly swung the shard and cut the veins on his wrist. Blood gushed out like a fountain, and Gleb screamed at the top of his lungs, doubling over.

In the next second, I heard someone running toward the room. A woman’s voice came from behind the door.

"If you’re breaking bottles against the wall again…"

She quickly opened the door and saw the bloodied Gleb trembling over his arm.

"Kill the kid!" he shouted, pointing at me with both hands. I hid beside the door, and the woman barely had time to register what was happening when I jumped out.

With a sharp motion, I plunged the shard deep into the inner part of her thigh and yanked it to the side. The glass tore through her femoral vein, and she screamed, stumbling back. Blood sprayed everywhere. I dashed out of the room and raced toward the exit. I heard a man rushing out of the operating room behind me, yelling. There was no time to turn around and check his reaction. I quickly turned the key, opened the door, and ran.

"Don’t just stand there like a sheep, catch him!" the woman’s shout reached me.

I flew to the gate, lifted the small latch, and burst out of that cursed territory.

“Freedom!”—the thought raced through my mind when suddenly, the sound of gunfire echoed all around. The guy was shooting at me!

Without stopping, I dashed across the road and immediately found myself in a dense forest. I started maneuvering in the darkness between the trees, moving in a zigzag to avoid being hit. The man was hot on my heels, shooting periodically. Bullets struck the trees I had just passed a second ago. Branches whipped against my face; I could hardly see anything, but I kept running. Adrenaline and the night’s darkness were helping me survive.

I wondered what would happen if he shot me. Would I be reborn? Would I have to endure all the nightmares of infancy again? Or would it be worse this time, and I’d head straight to the hellish cauldron? I wasn’t satisfied with any of those options.

I had to survive!

After running a good couple of kilometers, I finally stopped. I hadn’t heard gunfire or the footsteps of my pursuer for a while. Trying to breathe as quietly as possible, I scanned the forest for the slightest movement that resembled a human. But it seemed I had managed to get away.

I crouched by a tree to let my legs rest. They were "buzzing" terribly, and I silently thanked them for not failing me at the crucial moment. After all, no one prepares you for such a march.

After resting for a couple of minutes, I knew I had to get up and keep moving. There was still a slight chance the shooter could appear. But even without him, the night promised to be dangerous. The dark forest is unpredictable; you never know who might be lurking there. Luckily, May nights are quite warm. That’s one problem less—I wouldn’t freeze to death. I just had to hope that the forest wasn’t too big and that I’d be lucky enough to find my way out. Once I did, I could catch a ride and get home. What driver would refuse a lost child?

A few steps later, I found a decent stick on the ground. It would come in handy for fending off any unwelcome forest dwellers. Armed with it, I boldly stepped deeper into the woods.

The night turned out to be long. The only danger I encountered was a solitary snake. When I heard the rustling in the leaves and saw it approaching, I started frantically hitting it with my stick. The snake quickly understood and changed its course. That was the extent of my nighttime adventures.

As dawn approached, my eyes began to droop. My six-year-old body desperately needed rest. But I was sure that I wasn’t the only one having a sleepless night. My parents had probably been awake too, perhaps searching for me throughout the city. As I walked through the forest, I constantly reassured myself that this nightmare would soon end—for both them and me. And it would end, mind you, much better than it could have.

I was incredibly lucky. When the sun rose, I was able to spot a passing car in the distance, right behind the trees. I had managed to find my way to the road!

My joy was boundless, but I still decided to be cautious. I recalled clichéd scenes from old movies. Well, not that old—they probably haven’t been made yet. Those scenes where the captive escapes from the killers and then walks along the road, seeing a car approaching. He wants to stop it but suddenly realizes that the same killers are behind the wheel.

It was unlikely that the shooter would be cruising around in a van looking for me. He probably had enough problems of his own, like tending to his wounds. But I decided to err on the side of caution—I hid behind a tree by the roadside and observed.

About ten minutes later, a car appeared in the distance. After confirming it wasn’t a van, I took action: I dropped to all fours and slowly crawled onto the road. A few meters from me, a sedan came to a stop, and an elderly man, around sixty, rushed out, looking worried.

“Where did you come from, kid?” he asked, glancing around.

“I was kidnapped and left in the forest,” I stammered—“please take me to my mom.”

The plaintive voice of a child and my clothes stained with someone else's blood did the trick. The old man put me in his car, got my exact address, and promised to take me home within an hour.

I sat in the front seat, watching the road. I didn’t respond to the old man’s questions, so he quickly stopped asking them. Throughout the ride, I reflected on the night I’d just had. Despite the fact that it could have easily been my last, I found a serious upside to it.

Thanks to the kidnapping and my encounter with Gleb, I had a revelation. I discovered a quick, easy, and excellent way to make money through football betting. Yes, I would have eventually figured it out, but it’s better to arrive at something sooner rather than later, right?

A profitable summer awaited me, along with happy parents and the best childhood I could imagine.

A new life. No more crime.

No more prison.