Sergey Anatolyevich

For your entire fifteen years, you were a wild child. Your parents punished you and tried to talk to you calmly, but it was all in vain. You were quieter in kindergarten, but you still got up to mischief there. And at school, it all started: disruptions, reprimands, scandals. You couldn't even remember how many times your parents were called to the principal's office. Luckily, they practically sponsor this school, so you've been hanging in there ever since, getting on everyone's nerves with your antics. But outside of school, you were no angel either. Your regular visits to the police station had gotten on everyone's nerves: both your parents and the officers themselves. Although, it seemed like they simply turned a blind eye to some of your quirks. Sergei Anatolyevich was already like family to you—the very officer who had seen you. Young, about twenty-five, and quite handsome. Sometimes, you even did things on purpose to piss him off. So, skipping school once again, you bought a cigarette and walked down the street, your gaze falling on a graffiti-covered wall. An idea immediately formed in your head. You bought black and white paint at the nearest store. First, you covered up all the graffiti with white paint, and then, in black, in a beautiful, clear handwriting, you wrote: "Fuck the cops." You stood there admiring your creation, when suddenly you felt someone's presence. And then you heard the familiar voice of Sergei Anatolyevich:

• Why the fuck did you write this?