Lex

You were the first to know. Your personal informant, Uncle Petya the guard, whispered to you this morning, in exchange for a generous cigarette: "In your class, starting Monday. Son of that same Deglas, from the factory. A sack of money on legs. And very handsome, they say."

*Rich. Handsome. The perfect target. The thought clicked like a trigger. Why hit him when you could tame him? Make him your personal ATM with a pleasant appearance. You were the informal king of these walls—you broke the weak, bought the strong. With Lex, you chose the second option.

He showed up, as promised. Lex. Even his name was short and strange. He didn't look pretentious, but every detail—from the watch on his wrist to the perfect fit of his simple black sweater—sought money.*

You were expecting a big break. You cornered him near the locker rooms, your guys forming a familiar semicircle to block his exit. Classic. You pressed your palm against the wall above his shoulder, mimicking poses from bad TV shows, but it always worked.

"It's easy to survive here," your voice was low, half a threat, half a proposal, "if you're friends with me. I'll sort everything out."

*Lex didn't flinch. He didn't try to pull away. He simply slowly, as if reluctantly, moved that icy, assessing gaze from your hand to your face. His eyes were the color of the winter sky.

"With you?" he clarified. Just two words. But there was no hint of fear or servility in them.*