spirek9inne

Back In Lab / Dreams / Heavy Bag

Roadwork / Wrist Recover Corner talks / Late night

Wrist Injury / Regrets Corner Talks Witness

Road Work Corner Talks / Boxing Passion No Coins Left

looking good

we gon shine

Russian Soldiers

Owls / Russian Grinch

Dock Workers / Rumors

Back To Work / Playa Del Seville

Regular Workers

Another Night Shift / Garbage Collectors

The Beginning In the crumbling outskirts of a forgotten Russian town, where the wind howls like the ghosts of the Cold War and concrete blocks wear the stains of a thousand winters, two men ruled the underworld like phantoms: Grigoriy Petrov, a wiry 55-year-old ex-smuggler with ice-blue eyes and a limp from a Chechen landmine, and his older partner Zinoviy Yermoyalevich, 60, stocky, loud, one eye, and fond of quoting Dostoyevsky mid-barfight. To the locals, they were legends—monsters or heroes, depending on who you asked. To the police, they were shadows, always one step ahead. In truth, they were businessmen of the old kind—dealing in whatever paid best: guns, stolen cars, a little “medicine” from across the border, and secrets people would kill to keep buried. By day, they ran a scrapyard and “security business.” By night, they became something else. Their reputation was built on fear. Not just for what they did, but how they did it. Whispers told of dark basements and desperate screams—of rival dealers who vanished without a trace, and traitors who were found frozen beneath the river ice. But even the cruelest men age, and the East was changing. A younger, flashier generation was moving in—drunk on social media and Western cash. And Petrov and Yermoyalevich? They weren’t ready to be relics. They had one last plan. One last score. One that would either bury them in gold—or in the cold, hard dirt of Siberia. The Last Score II It started with a name: Andrei "The Banker" Zolotov. Zolotov wasn’t a banker. He was worse—an oligarch’s errand boy, laundering millions through ghost companies and offshore havens. He lived in Moscow now, protected by private armies and encrypted networks, but he grew up in the same village as Petrov. They used to steal apples from the same orchard. Then Andrei left for university, and Petrov went to prison. Zinoviy spat into the snow when he heard the name. Grigoriy lit a cigarette with fingers stiff from old breaks. Zinoviy grinned, revealing a gold tooth he claimed was taken from a Turkish mercenary. The Cousin They tracked her down in three days—Lilia Zolotova, age 29, museum curator, quiet life, government boyfriend. She was clean, which made her dangerous—because she had nothing to lose by talking. They grabbed her outside her apartment. Quick, quiet. Van with fake plates. Chloroform. Just like the old days. The safehouse was an abandoned Soviet checkpoint near the Urals. The cold did half their work for them. Zinoviy paced, always the talker. Grigoriy watched silently from the corner, sharpening a knife not because he needed it—but because it made people nervous. Red Snow in Los Santos They disappeared after the Zolotov job. No bodies. No arrests. No ledger. Just a scorched dacha, four dead mercs, and a voicemail left on a secure line: Weeks later, customs officers at Port of Los Santos found a shipping container from Vladivostok. Inside: empty vodka crates, a dismantled UAZ jeep... and nothing else. But by that weekend, three wealthy Vinewood homes had been hit — brutal, surgical burglaries. No alarms triggered. Cameras wiped. Residents found bound and blindfolded, muttering about men who spoke no English and smelled of cold steel and cheap tobacco. The police had no leads. The city had two ghosts. Los Santos Under Siege Grigoriy and Zinoviy set up in East Vinewood, blending into the crumbling Slavic immigrant neighborhoods like mold in wallpaper. They bribed a few dirty cops. They found a pawnshop run by a guy named Boris who owed favors. And they started rebuilding their empire—one basement at a time. Weapons? They moved crates from Blaine County militia caches. Drugs? Zinoviy made friends with cartel offshoots in Mirror Park. Information? Grigoriy hacked into security systems like it was 1993 again. They were old, yes—but ruthless never ages. The Myth of the Siberian Brothers Soon, they had a name on the streets: The Siberian Brothers. People whispered about the time a gang of street racers tried to rob them. Two weeks later, the gang's leader was found duct-taped to a Vinewood sign. Naked. Frozen. Alive. They didn’t just steal. They broadcasted fear. Every job became a message: the old wolves are here—and they bite harder than the young. The Final Blaze But Los Santos is a city of fire. And fire consumes. The FIB caught wind of them after a botched kidnapping in Rockford Hills. Surveillance drones. Tap lines. Paid snitches. On a rain-slick night, a black van roared down Vespucci Boulevard—chased by unmarked SUVs. Zinoviy was laughing behind the wheel, a gold tooth flashing in the rearview mirror. Grigoriy calmly loaded a Soviet-era AK from under his coat. They didn’t run to escape. They ran to burn the city with them. They crashed through a checkpoint near the LS docks, shot three agents, and set their hideout ablaze. No bodies were found. But months later, a Vinewood Hills mansion exploded under mysterious circumstances. And on a grainy CCTV clip, two shadowy men limped into the dark, one flicking a cigarette into the flames.