In the swirling chaos of post-Soviet Russia, I was raised with the understanding that the government was an entity so alien and detached from our daily grind that there was no bloody point in mingling. Instead, we tackled the relentless torrent of challenges that flooded our days, never seeking aid from the faceless authorities. This way of thinking sculpted a generation of souls who believed that as long as they didn't rattle the government's cage, they would be left to wander in their own existential wilderness.

The cunning entrepreneurs of modern-day Russia often found themselves forging their own tiny fiefdoms. They'd have their own chief of security and top dog of healthcare, their own hospitals and havens. But it was a treacherous game – crossing the line into the realm of politics was a fool's gamble. For instance, in 2003, when Khodorkovsky announced his mad dream of running for president, Putin's shadowy government swiftly pounced, crushing his company, Yukos, like a beetle underfoot, sending a stark warning: keep your nose out of politics, or suffer the consequences.

Then, in 2008, the great global financial maelstrom struck, its tendrils reaching even into Russia. Before this calamity, the nation had basked in the glow of economic fortune, fueled by the black gold of high oil prices. I found myself immersed in the world of entertainment, orchestrating debauched parties and events in the dimly-lit, smoke-filled dens of nightclubs. We were awash in filthy lucre, and life was a wild ride.

During the early 2000s, Russia was awash with obscene wealth and hedonism. Corporate shindigs featured the likes of Shakira pocketing millions for a performance, and Moscow's nightlife scene outshined anything the world had ever seen. I recall bumping into a Californian artist in L.A. a few years back, who happened to have lived in Moscow during those wild times. The moment he realized we both shared that outrageous epoch, his eyes blazed with excitement. He grabbed me, practically shaking me with enthusiasm. "Man, I can't even talk about it with anyone here, 'cause they don't bloody know! They're completely clueless about the sheer magnitude of luxury and sultriness that went down in Moscow in '07. Hell, Studio 54 is like a kiddie's morning party compared to those debaucherous days."

But, like all good things, it screeched to a halt with the 2008 financial crisis. The economy took a nosedive, and the decadence of yesteryear vanished into thin air. More critically, the rules of the game changed, and my family found ourselves in the crosshairs of the new old regime. Putin's lackeys, who used to leech money from the economy, suddenly found themselves with a shrunken income and turned their greedy gaze inward, eager to devour the fortunes of others like a pack of ravenous wolves. Our family's prosperity became a shining beacon for the underworld, and we had no choice but to adapt to this twisted new existence. My father ingrained in me the importance of always carrying a "go bag" – a satchel containing the necessary documents, cash, and essentials for a hasty exodus from the country.

In early 2009, we got word that our heads carried a price tag, and our only option was to disappear immediately. Half a year later, we slunk back, clinging to the hope of salvaging our wrecked lives and getting back on course. Before the crisis, I'd dabbled in a range of burgeoning ventures, but now I found myself thrust into the role of crisis manager. My father wrestled with the goons who had us in their sights, while I scrambled to keep our floundering businesses afloat as they sank deeper into oblivion. We faced unending threats, with gun-toting individuals barging into my office like clockwork each week. In the midst of the mayhem, I couldn't bring myself to fully blame the government for the calamity that unfolded around us. It was a wild, terrifying period, but it also served as an indelible lesson I'd never forget.

After weathering an incessant fucking storm of threats, we had no choice but to abandon Russia for good. Initially, we sought refuge in Moldova, where we had a bank, but those vicious fuckers eventually tracked us down there too. Forced to scatter, my parents found sanctuary in London, while I hunkered down in Munich, running a company.

In 2012, during a presidential election in Russia, I found myself casting a ballot in Bali. I remember voting for Prokhorov, in one of those old people resorts in Nusa Dua, where the consulate had set up a makeshift voting booth. We felt like we were making an impact, a bunch of naive fucking idiots, only to realize later we'd been helping Putin get reelected. After casting our votes, the consulate staff expressed their gratitude for "our support" and treated us to goddamn vodka shots. Yeah, those fuckers were brazen, completely unapologetic about their intentions. In a world where deceit and manipulation were commonplace, their utter lack of subtlety was both shocking and terrifying.

What followed was an even more twisted, dark-as-fucking-nightmare odyssey. An assassination attempt on my father's life in London left him clinging to life – all because the stubborn old man wouldn't back down or shut up about the bastards targeting us. Shot eight fucking times, he miraculously survived. He spent months in a coma and endured a brutal, nearly two-year recovery that tested the limits of human endurance. During this goddamn mess, we were pretty much textbook refugees. The British government had the nerve to fight our refugee status, but that's a whole other clusterfuck of a tale. Throughout this nightmare, I was seething with rage.

We were entrepreneurs who'd built solid businesses in Russia. Our banks had financed loads of badass residential developments in and around Moscow. And we didn't stop there - we were knee-deep in all kinds of tech projects. We built a kickass banking system that we licensed to other banks, and our payment system was the first to integrate traffic fine payments. We made life easier for Russians, boosted local budgets, and even helped curb corruption, if you can believe it. But no, we were targeted for being wealthy and not having the right fucking connections. At first, I was pissed at the individual shitheads who were after us. But eventually, I saw the bigger picture: they were just pawns with no real agency in a fucked-up governance system that let this kind of behavior run rampant. The real problem lay in the rotten core of a system that incentivised such twisted cunts to flourish.

In the swirling chaos of post-Soviet Russia, I was raised with the understanding that the government was an entity so alien and detached from our daily grind that there was no bloody point in mingling. Instead, we tackled the relentless torrent of challenges that flooded our days, never seeking aid from the faceless authorities. This way of thinking sculpted a generation of souls who believed that as long as they didn't rattle the government's cage, they would be left to wander in their own existential wilderness.

The cunning entrepreneurs of modern-day Russia often found themselves forging their own tiny fiefdoms. They'd have their own chief of security and top dog of healthcare, their own hospitals and havens. But it was a treacherous game – crossing the line into the realm of politics was a fool's gamble. For instance, in 2003, when Khodorkovsky announced his mad dream of running for president, Putin's shadowy government swiftly pounced, crushing his company, Yukos, like a beetle underfoot, sending a stark warning: keep your nose out of politics, or suffer the consequences.

Then, in 2008, the great global financial maelstrom struck, its tendrils reaching even into Russia. Before this calamity, the nation had basked in the glow of economic fortune, fueled by the black gold of high oil prices. I found myself immersed in the world of entertainment, orchestrating debauched parties and events in the dimly-lit, smoke-filled dens of nightclubs. We were awash in filthy lucre, and life was a wild ride.

During the early 2000s, Russia was awash with obscene wealth and hedonism. Corporate shindigs featured the likes of Shakira pocketing millions for a performance, and Moscow's nightlife scene outshined anything the world had ever seen. I recall bumping into a Californian artist in L.A. a few years back, who happened to have lived in Moscow during those wild times. The moment he realized we both shared that outrageous epoch, his eyes blazed with excitement. He grabbed me, practically shaking me with enthusiasm. "Man, I can't even talk about it with anyone here, 'cause they don't bloody know! They're completely clueless about the sheer magnitude of luxury and sultriness that went down in Moscow in '07. Hell, Studio 54 is like a kiddie's morning party compared to those debaucherous days."

But, like all good things, it screeched to a halt with the 2008 financial crisis. The economy took a nosedive, and the decadence of yesteryear vanished into thin air. More critically, the rules of the game changed, and my family found ourselves in the crosshairs of the new old regime. Putin's lackeys, who used to leech money from the economy, suddenly found themselves with a shrunken income and turned their greedy gaze inward, eager to devour the fortunes of others like a pack of ravenous wolves. Our family's prosperity became a shining beacon for the underworld, and we had no choice but to adapt to this twisted new existence. My father ingrained in me the importance of always carrying a "go bag" – a satchel containing the necessary documents, cash, and essentials for a hasty exodus from the country.

In early 2009, we got word that our heads carried a price tag, and our only option was to disappear immediately. Half a year later, we slunk back, clinging to the hope of salvaging our wrecked lives and getting back on course. Before the crisis, I'd dabbled in a range of burgeoning ventures, but now I found myself thrust into the role of crisis manager. My father wrestled with the goons who had us in their sights, while I scrambled to keep our floundering businesses afloat as they sank deeper into oblivion. We faced unending threats, with gun-toting individuals barging into my office like clockwork each week. In the midst of the mayhem, I couldn't bring myself to fully blame the government for the calamity that unfolded around us. It was a wild, terrifying period, but it also served as an indelible lesson I'd never forget.

After weathering an incessant fucking storm of threats, we had no choice but to abandon Russia for good. Initially, we sought refuge in Moldova, where we had a bank, but those vicious fuckers eventually tracked us down there too. Forced to scatter, my parents found sanctuary in London, while I hunkered down in Munich, running a company.

In 2012, during a presidential election in Russia, I found myself casting a ballot in Bali. I remember voting for Prokhorov, in one of those old people resorts in Nusa Dua, where the consulate had set up a makeshift voting booth. We felt like we were making an impact, a bunch of naive fucking idiots, only to realize later we'd been helping Putin get reelected. After casting our votes, the consulate staff expressed their gratitude for "our support" and treated us to goddamn vodka shots. Yeah, those fuckers were brazen, completely unapologetic about their intentions. In a world where deceit and manipulation were commonplace, their utter lack of subtlety was both shocking and terrifying.

What followed was an even more twisted, dark-as-fucking-nightmare odyssey. An assassination attempt on my father's life in London left him clinging to life – all because the stubborn old man wouldn't back down or shut up about the bastards targeting us. Shot eight fucking times, he miraculously survived. He spent months in a coma and endured a brutal, nearly two-year recovery that tested the limits of human endurance. During this goddamn mess, we were pretty much textbook refugees. The British government had the nerve to fight our refugee status, but that's a whole other clusterfuck of a tale. Throughout this nightmare, I was seething with rage.

We were entrepreneurs who'd built solid businesses in Russia. Our banks had financed loads of badass residential developments in and around Moscow. And we didn't stop there - we were knee-deep in all kinds of tech projects. We built a kickass banking system that we licensed to other banks, and our payment system was the first to integrate traffic fine payments. We made life easier for Russians, boosted local budgets, and even helped curb corruption, if you can believe it. But no, we were targeted for being wealthy and not having the right fucking connections. At first, I was pissed at the individual shitheads who were after us. But eventually, I saw the bigger picture: they were just pawns with no real agency in a fucked-up governance system that let this kind of behavior run rampant. The real problem lay in the rotten core of a system that incentivised such twisted cunts to flourish.