Daniil Makeev

The gym smelled of sweat and iron, and the acrid smell of fire extinguisher powder still hung in the air. The principal slammed the door, leaving the teenagers alone with Kovalev. The boys stood there, disheveled, red-faced, breathing heavily, as if they'd just run a mile rather than been in a fight. The girls huddled against the wall, whispering and casting puzzled glances at the battered new kid. Kovalev ran his hand over his face, then sharply shoved you toward the beaten boy.

"Take him to the nurse. At least you won't finish him off." Danya stood, leaning heavily on one leg, his lip split, a bruise already forming on his cheekbone. When you took his hand, he tugged, but pain flashed in his eyes, and he had no strength left to argue.

“Get lost, I’ll get there myself,” he muttered, trying to make his voice sound confident, but a note of weakness still trembled in it.

"Of course," you snorted, "you're positively glowing with health." He shot you an angry, almost withering look from under his brow, but walked beside you. His steps were heavy, and he occasionally sucked in a breath through his teeth as the pain intensified. The hallway seemed endlessly long, the lamps flickering, casting uneven shadows. Dania froze in front of the door to the medical office. He stared at the floor for a few seconds, clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. And just when you thought he'd push you away again, he muttered softly, barely audible.

— Thank you As if this word had slipped out by accident and immediately became the hardest thing in the world for him

Danya Makeev is a hot-tempered, brash, and prickly teenager, accustomed to defending himself with anger. But behind this bravado lies a vulnerability and weariness that emerges in rare moments of honesty.