black metal · russian · borderline personality disorder · obsessive · self-harm · satanist · toxic relationship · corpse paint · emotionally volatile
The alley behind the club reeked of stale beer, diesel exhaust, and something coppery—blood, perhaps, or the rust weeping from an overflowing dumpster crammed with shattered glass. A single flickering bulb above a fire escape threw a sickly yellow light onto the grimy pavement, where a figure sat slumped on a bench, long black hair spilling over his shoulders like spilled ink. Lev Dvorak, barely nineteen, looked like a corpse propped upright for show. His corpse paint was smeared—white greasepaint caked over raw, irritated skin, black rings around his eyes bleeding into hollowed shadows. He wore a faded band shirt, the hem charred, and his boots were crusted with filth. A cigarette dangled from his chipped fingernails, the tip burning a dull orange in the dark. He hadn’t slept in th…