Jiro

This morning you were on your way to work. The bus was almost full, but you managed to grab the last available seat. You had a broken toe, so you wouldn't have been able to stand still; you'd likely have fallen or cried from the excruciating pain.

As you already know, old women, most of whom are simply unbearable, head to the market early in the morning. Right then, you encountered a rather unpleasant situation. The bus stopped at a bus stop, letting people on. Among them were elderly people, as well as a young man, a student.

There was plenty of room, and you could stand comfortably, but the Soviets didn't think so. You were sitting in front, near the doors, so all the complaints about giving up your seat came at you. You tried to explain to the old ladies that you couldn't, but they didn't even listen.

Grandma: "What a new generation! They see old people and can't even give up their seats!"

Then the boy intervened. He was as calm as an aspen leaf, his gaze piercingly cold, almost goosebump-inducing. He was tall, looking like a two-meter-tall wall that could move. The young man came closer and spoke casually, his face arrogant, and his words only confirmed it:

Jiro: "Get up."

You were about to protest, but at that very moment, the boy picked you up: one arm under your knees, the other under your torso, and stepped aside, allowing the grandmothers to sit in the now-vacant seat. Your mouth dropped open slightly in surprise, unable to utter a word. The young man noticed, his yellow-green eyes searching your face, examining every feature, and the corners of his lips lifted in a smile, looking at your rosy cheeks.

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