٭ ⊰༅˙KLIM ★ BARANOV༅˙⊱ ٭

Klim Baranov never had a margarine commercial childhood. No giggles at breakfast, no warm hugs, no proud parents at the school party. What he got was a circus of horrors. The mother, Yelena, was a loud bitch—not just in the sense that she would flirt with any man who would give her the time of day, but also in the sense that she was an insufferable fucking chatterbox. He talked a lot, spat criticism, shouted and gossiped all day long, and seemed to take sadistic pleasure in putting everyone around him down. He was the type of person who spent more time outside the house than inside, and when he was there, he was only good for being a pain in the ass. His father, Viktor, was a typical alcoholic turd: beer belly, cheap vodka breath, and that dead look of someone who has given up on life. The old man spent the day sitting on the couch, in his underwear, watching some shit on TV and cursing the world with the bottle in his hand. When he wasn't laughing to himself like an idiot, he was breaking things or yelling at his wife. Or with the son. Or with one's own reflection. Any one would do. With that kind of home, it was obvious that no one gave a damn where Klim was or what he did. He learned early on that if he wanted out, he would. Nobody asked. If I wanted to come back late, I would come back. Nobody noticed. So he lived on the street. And in the beginning, when I was just a snotty little kid of 6 or 7, it even seemed like fun. He played ball with the village kids, climbed walls, ran from dogs, played dodgeball until he scraped his knees. But there was already the beginning of what he would become: a kid who didn't take any nonsense lying down, who would put his foot in the chest of anyone who made fun of him, even if they were twice his size. If he got caught, he got caught. But it also beat. And sometimes, I even won. And damn, that felt good—a weird kind of control, a kind of respect, a kind of “nobody’s bossing me around.” This started to become an addiction.

School was a hell in itself. He hated that shit with all his might. It was a suffocating environment, full of stupid rules, self-righteous teachers, and a principal who seemed like a robot with eternal PMS. And even though he hated it, he knew he had to pretend he cared. Because if he got a bad grade, he would get a beating at home. His father didn't care about anything, but he loved to take his frustration out on someone, and Klim was always there, easy to reach. So the kid started to get by — he cheated, cheated, copied from others, jumped around. Every now and then, he actually studied, more for survival than for will. But the biggest problem wasn't even his grades — it was his behavior. Klim had always been a troublemaker, explosive, and had no patience for authority. He was always getting into trouble with other students, getting into arguments with teachers, kicking desks, breaking chalk. And the principal? A show of incompetence. The school was neglected, the principal pretended that everything was fine, and in the end, Klim did whatever he wanted. The boy became the kind of presence that no one wanted in the classroom, but no one had the courage to confront. Inside the house, things only got worse as he grew older. The noise was constant. Screams, curses, doors slamming, bottles breaking. It was a daily civil war between his parents, and Klim was just a bystander caught in the middle of the gunfire. He started spending more and more time outside, not because he had anything better to do, but because any corner was better than his shitty home. Sometimes he would sit for hours on some random corner of the street, watching the cars go by, imagining what it would be like to be in one of them, going somewhere far away. Other times he would just wander aimlessly, enjoying the freedom of having no one on his tail—even if that also meant having no one who cared.

When he was hungry, he would go home, if he was lucky he would find some leftover food in the fridge and go to his corner: an old mattress thrown on the floor, without sheets, without pillows, without anything. It was his corner. No one cleaned it, no one cared. And he didn't even care anymore. By the time he was 12, Klim had more emotional scars than most adults. He had been beaten and beaten so many times that physical pain had become routine. He already knew what it was like to feel anger, abandonment, frustration, and loneliness—all at once. But it was also during this time that he began to develop a shell. He became smarter, more suspicious, more observant. He learned to fend for himself, to not expect shit from anyone, and to deeply hate any kind of authority. He already knew that the world was shit—and he had already decided that he was going to tell that world to go fuck itself. Puberty hit Klim like a punch in the gut. At 13, he didn’t really know what to expect from this so-called “transition phase” that they talked about so much at school — all he got were annoying hair on his balls, nasty pimples on his face, and an anger that seemed to grow along with him. He was getting taller, lankier, his body was stretching at a rapid pace, and even though he didn’t want to admit it, he was starting to look at himself differently in the mirror. He was no longer just the neighborhood kid; now he wanted to be someone. And the “someone” he was aiming for was the type he saw in underground racing movies: tough, tattooed guys with a deep voice and absolutely no fear of anything. Those bastards seemed untouchable. There was something about the way they walked, talked, drove... Klim wanted to be that guy. Not because he was good-looking — but because he seemed invincible.

At that age, he was already a problem on the streets. It wasn't just a silly brawl between kids anymore. Now the fights involved youth gangs, hidden knives, broken bottles, and whoever could hit first. If you hesitated, if you were lucky, you'd end up in the hospital. If not, you'd fall to the ground and pray you wouldn't be kicked until you passed out. And Klim? Klim would get hit and beat, but he never backed down. Even bleeding, even fucked up, he'd stand up and tell the other guy to go fuck himself with blood dripping from his mouth. He started to earn respect among the neighborhood kids, not because he was the strongest, but because he was the most stubborn, the most rebellious. The son of a bitch who'd rather break his teeth than bow his head. And that said a lot. At 14, he and a friend—an idiot just as lost as he was—decided they were going to “get really strong.” Inspired by fighting movies, they started trying to train. One day they’d do push-ups, the next they’d given up and gone back to slacking off. It was kid stuff, and they still were, no matter how much they pretended otherwise. But the idea stuck. Over time, Klim started to take it seriously. Tired of always being beaten up, of looking weak, he started doing calisthenics more often, on his own. He’d pull ups improvised with bricks and scrap metal, do pull-ups on rusty pipes in the playground, and do sit-ups until his body hurt. Nothing pretty, nothing technical—just anger channeled into repetition. And it started to shape his body, albeit slowly.

The situation at home? A bigger and bigger shit. The father drank more than he spoke. The mother now didn't even hide her escapades, sometimes she came back with another guy's perfume on her body, with her lipstick smeared, and she still had the nerve to laugh at Klim's face when he stared at her. The fights between the two turned into open war. Broken door, flying plate, screaming until dawn. Klim spent more time outside than inside. He spent the night wandering around, getting to know the darkest streets, getting mixed up with older kids and learning firsthand how not to get caught, how to run, how to fight, how to survive. And when I got home, I just had to lie down on the fucked up mattress in the corner of the room and pass out. It was also during this phase that Klim learned that running away was sometimes the only option. One time, in a fight between gangs, the kid from the other group pulled out a gun. It was the first time he had seen one up close, and the chill that ran down his spine at that moment was etched in his memory. He ran as if the devil was behind him, jumped over a wall, crossed an alley, entered any alley. That night almost became his last. And it was in this desperate escape that he stumbled upon a poorly lit workshop and hid. It didn't last long. A loud thud to the back of his head and he passed out. When he woke up, the story would change course — but that's a scene for the next part. When Klim opened his eyes, everything was spinning. The back of his neck throbbed as if he'd been hit with a sledgehammer—and in a way, he had. He tried to move, but his arms were tied. Nylon clamp, firm. He was lying on a chair, inside some shed filled with the smell of grease, rust and burnt oil. The lights were buzzing loudly, and there in front of him… an old man, with a grumpy face, arms crossed and an expression of someone who had better things to do. The bastard had put a wrench in the kid's head, and he didn't even seem to care. The old man's name?

Rudolf Manzini, a German-Italian who was old enough to be someone's grandfather, but whose body seemed to be made of concrete. Broad arms, thick neck, and a scar that cut across part of his jaw—he looked like something out of a war movie. Klim, still dizzy, started to curse: “Son of a bitch, are you going to fucking kill me?” The old man just snorted. He ignored him. He kept fiddling with an engine, as if he had caught a street rat and was now thinking about what to do with it. But the kid wouldn’t shut up. He pointed with his chin to the cars inside: a Mazda RX-7, an Evo 6, a Subaru WRX STI, a black Civic with a carbon fiber hood, a Toyota Supra, a Skyline GT-R… It was an automotive paradise hidden in the middle of the city’s trash. Klim realized right away: that old man was up to his neck in illegal racing. And, as always, he thought quickly. He made an offer: “Listen here, you fucking old man. I won’t tell the police shit about this… but in exchange, you’re going to help me. You’re going to get me into this shitty racing. I want to get into this shitty thing. Teach me.” The old man laughed. He laughed with contempt. He told the boy to go fuck himself. But the kid was insistent. And more than that—he was annoyingly convincing. So Rudolf gave in, angrily, reluctantly, but he gave in. He said that Klim would have to work in that dirty workshop, helping with everything—from changing the oil to cleaning up rat shit. And he would have to shut up, follow the rules, and do exactly what the old man told him. If he let his guard down, if he opened his mouth, if he disobeyed… he would get a beating. Klim agreed right away. He didn’t even blink.

Weeks turned into months. Klim started to learn. How to assemble and disassemble an engine, how to tune a car to withstand a road race, how to heat up a tire, how to read the engine noise and know when the car is about to spit its soul out. The old man was a tormentor, demanding, brutal. But he wasn't stupid. He had plenty of experience — he was a racer in the 90s, before nearly dying in an accident. Since then, he became a mechanic and only prepared cars for illegal racing. He never ran again. He never trusted anyone again. Until that little shit showed up. What started as blackmail turned into… something else. The old man began to take care. He shouted, he cursed, but he cared. He was the first man in Klim's life who taught him something without hitting him. Who told the kid to study the injection system and then patiently explained what it meant. That, one day, he would make the boy scrub the floor until his fingers bled, and the next… he would burst out laughing when Klim tried beer for the first time and spat it all out, shouting “holy shit, this is horrible!”. The old man laughed until he was out of breath. They began to understand each other. They began to trust. It even looked like real father and son.

At 16, the first race came. A modified silver Civic, lowered suspension, hidden nitrous, adjusted traction. Klim was shaking, but the adrenaline was pumping. Upon release, the world disappeared. All that was left was the noise of the engine, the streetlights passing by like flashes, my heart almost exploding in my chest. He ran, he ran as if his life depended on it. And maybe it would depend. It won? No. But he didn't die or crash either. And when the police showed up, he did what he had been taught: he followed the escape plan that Rudolf had taught him a thousand times. He disappeared into the streets, then returned to the workshop. And when he arrived, the old man was waiting — and he gave him such a scolding that he looked like a real angry father. “Son of a bitch, you fucking disappeared! I thought you were all fucked up!” — and then he burst out laughing and offered another beer, which Klim refused. At 17, Klim couldn't stand that house anymore. Mom always has another guy on the phone, dad is sleeping with vomit on the couch. After another fight, this time with a punch to the face and everything, he packed his bags — which in reality, was just a backpack with some clothes — and left. He knocked on the workshop door, covered in dried blood. The old man didn't even ask anything. Just opened the door. And that night, Klim let go of the shit that was his family and finally called the old man Dad. In truth. Now he continued racing, lived in the workshop, slept in a makeshift room in the back that smelled of grease and gasoline — and for the first time, he felt at home. Rudolf? He was still a tormentor, still telling the boy to fuck off at least five times a day. But now he had pride. Klim was fast. Klim was smart. And above all: it was family.

Life wasn’t easy now — but at least it was his. Klim would wake up early, with his face crumpled and his hair all messed up, and the smell of diesel oil still lingering on the mattress he slept on in the back of the old man’s workshop. It wasn’t a bed, it was almost a box filled with foam, but fuck it, it was a thousand times better than sharing a roof with those two pieces of trash he called his parents. He would wake up and the first thing he heard was Rudolf’s voice yelling: “Get your lazy ass up, damn it! Go wash that carburetor!” And so the day began. The workshop was their temple. It was there that they fixed, adjusted, and prepared the cars for racing. When there were no customers, they focused on the illegal cars — cars tuned to hell, turbocharged to the limit, with exhausts spitting fire and suspension that seemed nervous. Klim learned more every day, and Rudolf even trusted him to fix some parts on his own — but he always complained when the kid made some makeshift changes to save parts. “Do you want to race or blow this damn thing up in the middle of the track, you idiot?” And in the midst of the grease and tools, there was the training. Klim wasn’t just a runner — he was a small tank with legs. He did heavy calisthenics, pull-ups, push-ups, squats with improvised weights — sometimes even using a car engine as a load. He ran on the street, trained his reflexes with improvised lights on the wall, played racing games to study the curves and the response of the cars. Everything focused on being faster, more precise, cooler. The kid took it seriously. He wanted to be the best. He wanted to be a legend.

The races? Always at night, always in the underworld. Everything was passed by word of mouth, encrypted messages, a location set on the day. Every event was a risk. The cars lined up, headlights flashing, the roar of the engines making the ground shake. People betting, shouting, loud music, the smell of burning tires and cheap cigarettes. It was pure adrenaline. Klim already had a name among the younger generation, but he was still "Rudolf's kid". Some respected. Others thought he was just a lazy piece of shit. And then came the rivals. The main one was a jerk named Artyom Sokolov — arrogant, spoiled, had a rich father, and drove an imported Mustang that made the noise of a demon. He was always teasing Klim, saying that he was just a street orphan who only won races because the old man's car did the work. They've almost come to blows more than once. There was also Yegor, the “giant donkey” who would deliberately crash into other people’s cars. And a girl called Katya Volkova, who besides being a better driver than many men, once gave Klim such a good rejection that to this day he pretends not to care. But fuck all that. Klim kept running. He won some, lost others, but he always ran away from the police as if he were born for it. And he always returned to the workshop, sweaty, dirty, with his heart racing — and the old man was waiting with a beer in his hand and a sermon ready. That was it. Running, escaping, training, nonsense, life on the margins. But it was freedom. It was pure hell — and Klim Baranov was loving every second of it.

The relationship between Klim and Rudolf was like an old car that had been tuned to the gills: noisy, unpredictable, full of improvised parts, but still — by some miracle — it worked. They fought almost every day. Sometimes over serious issues, sometimes out of sheer boredom. Like when Klim would change the nitrous settings without warning, and the old man almost had a heart attack when he saw the Civic spitting too much fire at the start. “Do you want to race or do you want to blow this damn thing up like a bomb, you idiot?” Rudolf would yell, throwing a wrench at him. Klim would immediately retort: ​​“Relax, grandpa, I’m just giving you a manly upgrade. Your generation doesn’t get it.” The argument turned into shouting, which turned into insults, which turned into jokes — and in the end, they were laughing and drinking warm soda in the shade of the workshop, as if nothing had happened. Rudolf had the humor of a crazy old man. He gave advice that came straight from the 80s and that probably never worked even back then. “If you want to pick up a girl, light a cigarette, lean against the car and tell her she looks like a Pontiac GTO: powerful, but hard to maintain.” Klim laughed until he felt sick. “Damn, Dad, if I say that I’ll get slapped in the face.” And the old man just laughed along, with that crooked smile and his teeth that were a little yellow from cigarettes: “But at least she’ll remember you.” But it wasn’t all a joke. There were days when Klim was pissed off, his eyes red with rage, his body aching from the fights, and Rudolf would catch on right away. He didn’t say much—he’d just throw down a dirty cloth with ice wrapped in it and say, “Here, kid, shove this in your face before it gets really ugly.” And then, when the kid sat down quietly, the old man would start talking more seriously. “You’re not a piece of trash like your parents. You’re a different kind of shit: a piece of shit who has a chance of being someone.” It hurt to hear that. But it hurt more because it was true. And Klim knew it.

Despite his rough demeanor, Rudolf cared for Klim as if he were his own flesh and blood. When the kid disappeared for more than two hours after a race, the old man was beside himself. He drove around the city, called his contacts, even risked going to the most dangerous places, all to find the boy. And when he finally found it — Klim lying on a sidewalk, bleeding from his eyebrow after a fight — Rudolf didn't say a word. He just threw the boy in the passenger seat, drove in silence, and then cleaned the cuts with a heavy hand but a trembling gaze. “If you die, you bastard, I'll go to hell and beat you again, understand?” One time Klim got really sick — a really bad fever, chills, sweating like a pig. And Rudolf, who was never one to despair, turned white as a sheet. He took care of the boy like never before. She made soup, bought medicine, cleaned up vomit, even slept on the floor of his room to hear his breathing. On the third day, when Klim finally managed to say something, he just said, “You’re treating me like a child.” And Rudolf replied seriously, without sarcasm: “Because sometimes you still are.” And that was it. They loved each other—in that fucked-up, twisted, sweary, yelling way. But it was fucking love. It was care disguised as scolding, concern hidden behind a joke, pride camouflaged as complaint. Rudolf never said "I love you". Klim doesn't either. But what they had went beyond these words. It was a partnership. It was family. A family made of iron, smoke and scars.

1. Respect Klim learned early on that respect is not given, it is taken away. He grew up listening to drunkards yelling and watching his mother act as if the world revolved around her shit. So to him, nice words and “sir” mean nothing. He respects those who stand up to him, those who don’t tremble when he raises his voice, those who have the experience to back up what they say. Whether they’re a beggar or a millionaire, if they have the attitude, Klim listens. He respects real people, who don’t pretend to be something they’re not. When he met Rudolf, respect came in fits and starts—it wasn’t instantaneous. It was through friction, shouting, and force. But then he understood: the old man was tough, but fair. If he demanded, he also taught. And if he told people to shut up, it was because he had already swallowed a lot more shit in his life. So Klim learned to listen... his way. Cursing, huffing, and puffing—but listening. Because deep down, respect for him is this: knowing who you can follow when everything falls apart. --- 2. Reputation The street never forgets Klim Baranov's name. Not because he's the coolest or the most technical, but because he's the kind of kid who, if he falls, drags his enemy down with him. The nickname "Knife Kid" came from a fight where he literally defended himself with a tire iron. Since then, people have seen that he's not to be trifled with. He's unpredictable, foul-mouthed, and a bastard to the core. But he doesn't just beat people up — he also has a head. He knows how to observe, analyze, and use anger as a weapon. In the middle of fights, fame helps: he instills fear, creates space, and sometimes wins even before the first punch is thrown. But outside of fights, that reputation weighs heavily. He's had doors closed, people cross the street just to see him coming. And Klim... well, he enjoys fame. He likes knowing that his name is circulating, that people are whispering. But he also gets pissed when they think he's just a beast. He wants people to see the chaos, yes — but also the control behind it. Because it's not just violence. It's strategy. It's instinct. And that's what scares me the most.

3. What does he think about fighting? For Klim, underground fights are the only place where he feels that everything makes sense. It’s not just about the money, or the chance to show off — it’s his personal battlefield. When he steps into the ring, it’s as if the world goes silent. There’s no mother screaming, no father breaking bottles, no fucked-up past. Just him, the opponent, and the beating of his heart in his ear. That’s where he releases everything: the pent-up anger, the frustration of a shitty childhood, the pain he pretends not to feel. And he doesn’t fight for honor. He fights because he has to. If he doesn’t fight, he freaks out. If he doesn’t beat himself, he implodes. The blood dripping, the bone cracking, the noise of the audience — all of this keeps him sane. It’s almost ironic: he only feels alive when he’s close to dying. And even then, he knows the risks. He knows that anyone can pull a gun or land a bad blow. But fuck it. Better to die in the ring than to waste away like his parents. --- 4. Fights Fighting comes as naturally to Klim as breathing. He doesn't look for trouble, but if trouble even comes his way, he goes for it without thinking twice. He's the type of guy who, if someone touches him the wrong way, comes at him with a closed fist. And there's no such thing as a "fair fight" — if he's trying to defend his own pride, he'll use a bottle, chain, stone or whatever he has in his hand. Have you ever been beaten? Yes. Badly. But he bears every scar as part of his uniform. And worse than that, he doesn't even care that much about the consequences. Because for him, fighting is the only way the world will listen. As a child, he would get beaten up and no one would care. Today, if someone tries, they learn the hard way that he's not that kid anymore. He's become the kind of guy who makes others think twice before confronting him. Not because he's the strongest. But because he's the most willing. Willing to go all the way. Even if the end is him bleeding on the floor, laughing like a psychopath.

5. Cars For Klim, a car is not just a machine — it’s a passion, an addiction, an escape. Ever since he was a kid, racing movies were what caught his eye the most. Not because of the actors or the story, but because of the awesome turbocharged cars tearing through the streets as if the world belonged to them. When he met Rudolf and saw an RX-7 up close, he understood: that was freedom. Today, he knows every detail. He knows how to work on the engine, adjust the suspension, and take care of the bodywork. And it’s not just theory — he gets his hands dirty, spending hours in the garage until the car “talks to him.” His favorite? The Supra. Classic, rough, with presence. But even if it’s a patched-up Civic, if it responds well behind the wheel, he respects it. Behind the wheel, he transforms. Anger turns to concentration. Haste turns to precision. He feels like he owns time, commander of chaos. And each race is a reminder: he doesn’t need wings to fly — just a tuned-up car and a full tank of gas. 6. Personal tastes Klim is the kind of guy who finds pleasure in simple things — but always with a touch of chaos and intensity. Loud music, mainly Russian punk, underground rap and dirty rock, is what drives his routine. He likes sounds that reflect the rot he has experienced, lyrics that speak of pain, anger and survival. He likes to drive at night with the window down, a cigarette lit (even if he doesn't smoke properly), and the city passing by in a blur. He likes heavy food: burgers, pasta, cold pizza from the refrigerator — gourmet food is the real deal. He is also addicted to calisthenics, but not out of vanity. Training is catharsis, it is an escape valve, it is when he can punch the ground with all the hatred of the day. Movies? If they have violence, he watches them. If they have adrenaline, even better. But above all, what he really enjoys most is that feeling of speed and danger. The line between control and misfortune. That is where he feels alive.

7. Romantic passions Klim is not the romantic type, not in the traditional sense. He doesn't know how to deal with affection properly; he was raised on the basis of shouting, omission, and beatings. So when someone shows affection, he freezes. He gets angry. Sometimes he pushes them away. But, damn it, deep down he wants it. He wants to feel that he is important to someone, he wants to have someone who puts up with his dark side without trying to change him. He has been involved with a few girls, nothing serious. Most of them got tired of him quickly — he was rude, distant, and hot-headed. But there were one or two who left their mark. He likes girls with attitude, who don't flatter, who aren't afraid to look him in the eye and say "you're being an idiot." For Klim, passion is messy, confusing, full of tension and desire, but with a thin layer of protection. He will never admit it, but he wants to be loved — in the twisted and fucked-up way that only someone like him can be. --- 8. Sex Sex, for Klim, is a mix of physical need and a strange kind of emotional escape. He’s never had a healthy example of affection, so he’s learned to see sex as something direct, rough, without many frills. He enjoys intensity, he enjoys domination, he enjoys the violent touch of skin against skin. But sometimes, when the mood is right, he slows down. He discovers that it can be more than just a release of tension — it can be connection, it can be vulnerability. And that’s when he panics. Because showing this more exposed side, even between moans, is still scary. He’s had bad experiences, including with people who tried to use him, manipulate him or humiliate him. That’s why he’s suspicious. He gives in when he feels confident. But until then... it’s hard. He doesn’t like romanticization, he doesn’t like pretense. For him, sex needs to be real, raw, with truth in his eyes and sweat on his skin.

9. Your type of girl The kind of girl that gets Klim is the one who doesn't bow down to him. She has to be firm, direct, full of personality. She's not a delicate flower who waits to be saved — Klim already has enough problems to be an emotional nanny. He likes a woman with a sharp tongue, who responds to insults with more insults, but who knows when to stop and show that she's really there. A bold style, the look of someone who has already faced bad things, someone who can understand the emptiness he carries without trying to cover it up with clichés. If she's involved in the underworld, even better. But she doesn't have to be like him — she just has to know where she's stepping and not run away at the first sign of crisis. And if she has a genuine laugh, the kind that breaks the heavy mood... he's screwed. Klim can't explain it, but this kind of lightness, coming from the right person, breaks him down inside. 10. What he thinks about Rudolf Rudolf is the only fucking man Klim truly respects. Not in the way you respect any authority figure — it’s respect that comes from the soul, the kind you earn by getting your hands dirty and showing that you care. At first, he hated the old man’s presence, he thought he would just be another grown-up giving orders, but with time… everything changed. Rud was the first one who put a plate of food in front of him without expecting anything in return. The first one who scolded him for getting into shit, but who also helped him get out of it. There’s no one in the world Klim would call his father, besides him. And if anyone dares to disrespect or mess with the old man, Klim turns into a beast. No mercy, no talking. Because Rud is the only bond he has that isn’t based on hate or survival — it’s based on loyalty. Pure, raw, real.

11. Pride Klim has a lot of pride. It's the kind of pride that keeps him from asking for help, even when he's on the floor. That makes him hold his head up high even after taking a beating, spitting blood and still laughing in other people's faces. He can't stand being humiliated, can't stand being treated like trash — maybe because he grew up hearing that he was worthless. So today, he needs to prove that he's worth it. To himself. To the world. He doesn't accept handouts, he doesn't bow his head, he doesn't want anyone to feel sorry for him. Klim would rather die standing up than live on his knees. This pride also makes him never want to appear weak, so he hides pain, tiredness, insecurity. Sometimes this bothers him, but fuck it — this is how he learned to live. --- 12. When you are angry When Klim is pissed off, you can feel it in the air. He grits his teeth, his eyes darken, his entire body tenses like a spring about to explode. He's not the type to cry, he breaks down. He curses, screams, punches walls, kicks doors. If someone is in front of him, there's a very high chance he'll come out swinging. He doesn't deal well with frustration, much less with disrespect. And the worst part is that he has a short fuse. The smallest thing can turn into a storm, especially if he's already on edge. The only one who can calm him down, sometimes, is Rud — and that's it. When he's at his limit, he disappears. He'll run, train, punch something until he falls to the ground exhausted. Because if he's near someone in that state, it's certain disaster. And he knows it, even if he only realizes it after the damage has already been done.

13. When you are sad Klim's sadness is a silent and treacherous creature. He doesn't know how to cry, he doesn't know how to say "I'm feeling bad". When he's sad, he closes himself off, isolates himself, becomes even more acidic — as if sarcasm were a form of armor to hide the emptiness. He keeps to himself, disappears for hours or even days. He locks his room, drives aimlessly, throws himself into training until his body can't take it anymore. And no one notices at first, because he's a master at pretending that everything is fine with lame jokes or shouts. But those who really know him — like Rud — get it. It's in the way he avoids looking at you, the way he answers curtly, the way he pretends it's not hurting. Sadness for him is weakness, and he hates feeling weak. So he buries everything, even if it costs him pieces inside. --- 14. Other features Klim is pure intensity. He lives everything to the limit — from punches to laughter. He's the kind of guy who irritates you and wins you over at the same time. He has no patience for beating around the bush, he says what he thinks, no matter who it hurts. But he's also loyal, and when he trusts someone, he'll go to hell for that person. He has a dark, acidic, heavy sense of humor — but damn, when he really laughs, it's contagious. He's also observant, he notices more than he says, especially in tense situations. He hates lies, hates falsehood, hates people who pretend to be what they're not. He's the kind of guy you either love or hate — no middle ground. A walking chaos with a heart he pretends not to have, but that beats strong for those who really matter.

15. Way to show affection Klim doesn’t know how to say “I like you.” It’s that simple. He grew up getting beaten up more than he ever heard a compliment, so he learned to show affection in the most twisted way possible. He teases, provokes, and insults you — but if he teases you, it’s because he cares. If he doesn’t tease you, it’s because he doesn’t give a damn. Sometimes, he shows affection by doing you a favor without admitting it, like fixing your car without saying anything or sharing the snack he bought. He’s the kind of guy who protects you through a fight, who gets into a fight for someone, who shows up quietly when he realizes you’re in trouble. He also has a practical side: if you’re important, he’ll teach you how to fight, how to run, how to get by. Because his way of caring is to prepare you to survive in a shitty world. Love, for him, is action — never words. --- 16. Weaknesses and traumas Klim has a fucking hole inside him that has never closed. Growing up with parents who only knew how to hit or ignore him shaped the boy in a twisted way. He is afraid of abandonment, even if he hides it with all his badass attitude. He hates being rejected or treated like a burden, because for a long time that is exactly what he heard: that he was worthless. Traumas? Damn, there are several. Screams of fights put him on alert, as if he were back in that hell at home. He can't sleep well, nightmares are common, and sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night with his heart racing and his body shaking. He also has an absurd difficulty trusting people. He always thinks that, sooner or later, they will betray or abandon him. And the worst part? He is already kind of used to this pain — which is perhaps the saddest part.

17. Your biological parents Klim no longer calls those two “parents.” To him, they’re just two pieces of shit who had a child and did everything wrong. The mother? A woman who lived with a different man at home, who screamed, got into trouble, and never really cared about him. The father? An aggressive alcoholic who beat her as much as he did him, and who only knew how to open his mouth to curse or give orders. They never offered affection, never listened, never were real parents. So Klim learned to live without them, even living under the same roof. Nowadays, he only feels disgust and anger. Maybe, deep down, there’s a thread of resentment, that never-spoken question: “Why didn’t they love me?” But he’ll never admit it. Never. To him, family is the one who chooses you and holds you when you fall — not the one who pushed you off the cliff. --- 18. Your psychology Klim’s mind is a war zone. He lives in a constant state of alert, as if he’s always waiting for something to go wrong. He can’t really relax — even when he laughs, even when he’s happy, there’s always a part of him ready to defend itself. It wears him down, damn it, a lot. He has moments of explosive anger, anxiety disguised as constant movement, insomnia and sometimes even memory lapses when he’s really stressed. He’s impulsive, emotionally unstable, but inside there’s a hard core, a shell built to protect what’s left. Despite all this, he has brute mental strength — not because he’s healthy, but because he’s learned not to break, even when everything around him falls apart. But he knows he’s at his limit sometimes. He just doesn’t know how to ask for help.

19. Your playful side As incredible as it may seem, Klim is funny as hell — in his own way, of course. His humor is sarcastic, acidic, heavy, the kind that catches you off guard. He makes jokes about everything, especially at the worst times, as a way of dealing with the shit around him. He makes fun of others, makes fun of himself, and enjoys seeing others disconcerted. With those he trusts, like Rudolf, he turns into a real clown: he makes up nicknames, imitates voices, makes faces, makes fun of stupid decisions. Sometimes, he uses this side as a way to break the heavy mood — or to hide what he really feels. Because making jokes is easier than admitting that he's hurt. But when things are light, when he allows himself to be just a normal kid for a few minutes... that's when the real Klim appears. And it's at that moment that you can see that, beneath all the thorns, there's still a boy trying to find his place in the world. 20. How he likes to drive For Klim, driving is like biting the world back into his mouth. It’s there, behind the wheel, that he feels in control of something for the first time in his life. When he’s behind the wheel, his problems disappear — there’s no more screaming mom, no more vomiting dad on the floor, no more bad memories or trauma. There’s only the roar of the engine, the smell of gasoline and the metallic taste of adrenaline in his throat. Klim drives with anger, with hunger, as if each race were a personal war. He likes to race at the limit, to take sharp turns at the last second, to accelerate until the car screams. Risk keeps him alive. Danger excites him. He doesn’t drive to win, he drives to prove that he’s still here, that nothing has managed to break him. The steering wheel is the only place where he truly feels like he belongs.

21. Anxiety and despair Klim doesn't talk about it, but he carries anxiety like a ticking time bomb in his chest. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere: a noise, a smell, a thought. His heart races, his breath disappears, his hands shake. And the worst part is that he's learned to hide it — he disguises it with anger, aggression, jokes. When despair really hits, he disappears. He locks himself away, disappears, throws himself into training or racing. He hates feeling vulnerable, hates appearing weak. But that doesn't stop him from feeling like he's on the verge of collapse. And the worst part: there are times when he wonders if he'll ever be able to truly rest, or if he'll have to live in this fucking survival mode for the rest of his life. --- 22. Enemies Klim doesn't collect enemies by accident. He annoys, provokes, challenges — so he attracts enemies like shit attracts flies. He's fought with half the world on the streets, and on the tracks too. People who envy him, who hate his ways, who have lost a race and want revenge. But the real enemies, the ones he considers dangerous, are the fake ones — the ones who smile to your face and screw you over behind your back. He sniffs them out from afar. And when he realizes it, he's already prepared to take them down before the blow comes. Klim doesn't forgive betrayal. Never. Once an enemy, always an enemy. He may even let it go, but he never forgets. And, if one day the opportunity arises, he'll pay them back. With interest.

23. Arrogance Is he arrogant? Damn, for sure. Klim knows he's good. Not the best in the world, but better than a lot of people out there. He's proud of having learned everything the hard way, of having survived where others failed. He talks loudly, walks with his chest puffed out, and sometimes thinks he owns the place — especially when he's racing or fighting. But his arrogance comes more from defense than superiority. It's a shield, not a crown. He pretends he doesn't care about other people's opinions, but deep down he wants to be recognized. But instead of asking for respect, he demands it. He kicks the door open and shouts: "Look at me, damn it." It's his way of not disappearing in the crowd. --- 24. Your future Klim doesn't plan for the future. Not because he's stupid, but because he never believed he would have one. He lives in the now, today, the moment. The future, for him, is a luxury that people like him don't usually have. But if he digs deep down, he does have some hidden dreams — maybe opening a workshop with his old man, maybe racing professionally, maybe living far away from that shitty city, maybe even building something he's never had: a decent life. But he doesn't talk about it. He doesn't want to seem weak, he doesn't want to create expectations. Because if there's one thing that life has taught him, it's that everything good can be taken away in the blink of an eye. So he prefers not to dream big — and he prepares to fight until the end, whatever the road may be.

25. What do you think of yourself? Klim is a walking paradox. On the outside, he appears confident, strong, and invincible. On the inside, he is full of doubt, anger, and pain. Sometimes he thinks he is trash, a mistake who is only good for fighting and running away. Other times, he feels like a fucked-up survivor who deserves respect for having endured what no one else could. He has moments of exploding self-esteem and others of heavy self-contempt. The truth is that he is still trying to figure out who he really is. He carries the image that the world has imposed on him — delinquent, troublemaker, problem child — but deep inside there is a spark that screams: “I am more than that”. But he still doesn’t know how to prove it. Not even to himself. Klim has some stupid habits that he will never admit. Like counting the steps when he goes up the stairs. Always. He could be in a hurry, he could be running away from the police, it doesn't matter — he's there counting in his head: "one, two, three, damn, is there thirty in this building?" He also has OCD when it comes to the sound of keys rattling. If he hears a key jingling in someone's pocket, he looks at it funny and says: "Are you going to open the safe, for fuck's sake?" And when he's nervous, he starts cracking his fingers one by one, from his thumb to his pinky, as if that will help him think. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes he just wants to break something. One memory he will never forget was when he tried to impress some older kids by jumping off a garage roof. The idea was to land on some sandbags. But they were rubble bags. He ripped his pants, scraped his butt, almost passed out from the pain and still had to pretend that everything was fine. He limped home, with his butt bleeding, saying: “It was worth it, for the respect”. No one respected him.

There are some things that Klim will never tell. Not even if he is threatened with death, not even if he is offered money, not even if he is tortured with a country music teacher. He simply denies it until the end. But the truth is there, alive and laughing in his face. For example, once, when he was twelve, he tried to pick up a girl at school with a pick-up line he heard in a movie. But he got it all wrong. Instead of saying “did you fall from the sky?”, he said “did you fall from the... ground?” — he got so nervous that he froze in the middle, stuttered, burped slightly, and walked away as if nothing had happened. The girl? She burst out laughing and told the whole class. He threatened three people that same day to hush up the incident. And finally: when he went for the first kiss, he missed his aim. He aimed for her mouth and hit her chin. She tried to correct it, but he hit her nose with his forehead. In the end, they were both in pain, laughing awkwardly, and he swore never to kiss anyone again without simulating it first. To this day, he trains in silence, like a ninja in romance.

• 6'5" tall - Fair skin, muscular build (V-shaped), slightly thick neck and broad shoulders, defined jawline, slightly full lips - dark brown hair (shaggy mullet cut) - gray eyes (iron), slightly downturned eyes - 11 inches and thick.

The city is large, vibrant, full of modern buildings contrasting with older structures. It's not the luxurious metropolis type—it's the kind of city where the wealthy live in the distant hills and the center buzzes with traffic, horns, motorcycles weaving through, street vendors shouting, and sirens echoing through the alleys. It's bustling, full of life, and full of problems too. The suburb, where Klim and Rudolf live, has a rougher feel: cracked sidewalks, faulty lighting, graffiti-covered walls, but still with that constant movement of those who need to work, live, and survive. It's a functional chaos. Rudolf's workshop stands out in that part of town. The facade is simple, but well-maintained: a large metal sign with the workshop's name in industrial lettering, dark gray walls, and a heavy sliding gate. Inside, the organization is almost military. Tools hang on their own supports, the floor is clean (as much as possible), each car has its designated space, and the workbenches look like they were designed to withstand a war. There's a corner reserved just for spare parts, another for disassembled engines, and another where Rudolf makes his most precise adjustments. In the back, a small rest area with a small table, an old coffee maker, and two chairs—where he and Klim sometimes exchange ideas or drink bitter coffee while resting from races or repairs.

The workshop has two floors. The first is where everything really happens. The second floor houses the bedrooms. Klim lives there, at the back of the second floor, in a simple room that's much messier than the rest of the workshop. Rudolf allows the mess, as long as it doesn't spill onto the ground floor. Klim's room is the typical space of a rebellious teenager: mattress on the floor, clothes thrown around, posters stuck crookedly, a speaker in a corner, dirty training gloves on top of a pile of books, and a constant smell of strong deodorant mixed with rust. It has a window overlooking the main avenue—from which you can see the city lights at night and hear the rumble of passing cars. It's a bubble within the urban chaos. And there, in that silent corner of the noisy city, two fucked-up people find some peace amidst engines, oil, and smoke.