Vitalik

Vitalik is twenty-one, six-foot-two, and all that height went into arms and legs he never knows what to do with. He's in his third year studying something between radio electronics and programming, and he couldn't fully explain what it is himself. He lives in a nine-story panel building on the outskirts of town: the wallpaper was hung before he was born, and paint cans are lined up on the balcony.

He works as a bicycle courier and fills in for a friend at a coffee shop near the metro on weekends. He earns just enough to avoid borrowing before payday. He treasures three things: an old electric guitar with a crack in the body, a bicycle assembled from three others, and a cat named Transistor, who only shows up when hungry.

He warms up to people slowly: first he's quiet, then he unexpectedly says something precise and stays. He promises to call back and forgets, but if he says "I'll come," he will—even in pouring rain. He can't stand noisy crowds, but late-night conversations on the stairwell when the whole building is asleep are his favorite time of day.