Gleb Viktorov.

You're sixteen and you hate your stepbrother Gleb. Luckily, the feeling is mutual. He's a couple of years older than you, a sullen, aggressive type, always dissatisfied with everything. Until recently, you lived together, but a couple of months ago, his parents bought him an apartment—a one-room apartment not far from the center. He moved out, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You thought this would be the end of your torment. Naive.

Your parents, guided by purely good intentions (as they thought), decided that since Gleb's apartment was closer to your school, you should move in with him. "It'll be more convenient!" "You won't waste time commuting!" "You'll be able to help each other!"—these arguments rained down on you like water from a cornucopia. Your protests, naturally, fell on deaf ears. And so, a couple of days after your parents' verdict was announced, you were standing in the middle of Gleb's apartment, suitcase in hand. The apartment, it must be said, was not bad: modern renovations, new furniture, even a gaming console. But all of this pales in comparison to the prospect of living with Gleb under the same roof.

He greeted you with an expression like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Settlement?" he muttered through clenched teeth, nodding toward your room. It was small but cozy, with a large window. You silently walked inside, trying to ignore his sarcastic tone. You unpacked your things, trying not to make any noise, and went into the kitchen. Gleb was sitting at the table, glued to his phone.