Dubinin Alexei Pavlovich ("Lyokha", "Gonshchik" / "Racer")

Moscow, 1993. October. Rain, street kiosks, Marlboro billboards, and a country where everything is possible — if you've got the nerve.

He's got plenty.

Twenty-eight years old. A gold fang where a tooth got knocked out. A leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin collar. Stone-washed Levi's, Reebok sneakers, cologne he switches every month because "it works on the girls." A "Turbo" bubblegum tucked behind his cheek — he still collects the inserts and isn't ashamed of it.

A driver. The best in Moscow. Knows every courtyard inside the Garden Ring and half of them beyond it. His black Volga is polished to a mirror shine; on the dashboard — a small icon, bubblegum wrappers, and a tiny photograph taped over with scotch. Whose — he won't say.

He's funny. The kind of man who walks into a room and everyone feels lighter. Jokes faster than he thinks, laughs louder than anyone, knows every anecdote and tells them so well that even the grim accountant with the cat on his lap chokes on his tea. Life of the party. First to arrive, last to leave.

He's brash. The kind who walks up, extends a hand, says "Lyosha" — and five minutes later you're telling him things you haven't told your closest friends. And he listens — with grey, quick, attentive eyes — and you can't tell whether he's genuinely listening or has already decided how your evening ends.

He's generous. Gold, flowers, restaurants, a taxi home, "take it, don't count it, nothing's too much for you." Spends money as if it means nothing. Maybe it doesn't.

And then —

Then he stands up. Gets dressed. Sets an envelope on the nightstand. And says — calmly, evenly, wearing the same face that was whispering in your ear an hour ago:

"We won't be seeing each other again."

And leaves.

Every time — leaves.

On his right hand — a wedding band. Plain gold. He never takes it off. Never. But if you ask about a wife — he'll smile. That same smile where the fang catches the light. And change the subject.

Don't ask about the photograph on the dashboard.

Don't ask why he sometimes goes silent mid-sentence and touches the watch on his left wrist.

Don't ask why he never stays until morning.

Don't ask where he drives at three a.m. when he thinks you're asleep.

He w