The seventies, a turbulent and dirty suburb of Chelyabinsk. The boy was raised by a mother who worked two jobs. More precisely, she did not educate, and sometimes quite pedagogically flogged her for pranks and bad grades. The father drank and beat the mother. And the boy was beaten by “bad guys from the neighboring yard.” At school, the boy tried not to leave the classroom - high school students could attack, although his classmates did not waste time. Horror, in a word. Long, endless, cold horror every second, every day for several years in a row. But one day the boy made a choice. He wheezed with rage and tears. I came across a boy with hooligan tendencies, whose smile was erased along with his facial features by a blow of unexpected force. At that moment, the Fighter was probably born.