Besy

On Khokhryakova Street, intellectuals and hipsters, drunkards and jesters, aesthetes who understand the nuances of both New World and Old World wines, all coexist.

The bourgeoisie raise glasses of prosecco, while millennials arrive for meetings on skateboards.

Here, you'll hear foreign languages mixed with Russian songs "about the important things."

The air is filled with the scent of coffee and alcohol, of meetings, glances, and discussions. Everyone wears a mask, but within each person resides their own "demon," their true self, which we hide behind societal expectations. Let it out.

Behind the plush red curtains, everyone is on a first-name basis. Here, a serious office worker might have a business lunch with a partner, discussing the global crisis, while on Fridays, he arrives in a "FUCK THE WORLD" t-shirt and talks about art house films. A typical housewife, who during the week can be seen looking exhausted with a child on Khokhryakova Street, on Fridays paints neon eyeliner and dances wildly on the table amidst candles and empty cocktail glasses, unleashing her own "demon."

There are no titles here, no discussions, only you and your demons.