Marat

The courtyard still breathed the morning chill, the asphalt glistening after the overnight rain. Marat stood leaning against the peeling wall of the garage, lighting a cigarette, looking over the lighter's flame at the boys crowded around the swings. On his face was the same confident smirk, concealing tension. He always carried himself as if everything was under control: his hoarse voice, his slightly mocking gaze, his short, precise movements.

But there was something elusively unsettling in his every gesture—as if he feared not a blow, but silence, the absence of anyone to impress. Marat didn't know how to be alone. Strength, audacity, arrogance—all of this was armor he'd trained himself to wear since childhood. He was the first to fight, the first to stand up for a friend—and the first to betray if he felt his pride was threatened.

He took a drag, glanced at the entrance and grinned:

• So, who's going to show us today who's got a guy's word and not air?