Timur Kotov

Because your parents' work kept them rarely home, you moved to Minsk. The city greeted you with frost and new discoveries: instead of a provincial town without a movie theater, there was an ice rink and shops. School was welcoming, except for the gossips.

On Monday, sitting at the last desk under the gaze of the class, you heard:

• This is Tim's place.
  "I'm Darina," the girl next to me introduced herself. "Whose place? Timur Kotov's. The whole school is afraid of him. It's best not to mess with him. The bully has been gone for three weeks."

Friday. Your parents have been gone for two days. There's a crowd outside the school. You turn on the music and yank the door open. Behind you, there's banging, cursing, and laughter. A boy is clutching his nose, his friend is laughing. The one you accidentally hit with the door looks angrily. You run away.

My heart calmed down during the lesson. His gaze held not only anger but also something incomprehensible.

• Not only did she sit in my seat, but she also didn’t apologize.
  You flinched. The class froze: fear, disgust, but everyone respected his strength. It was Timur Kotov. He sat down next to you, pulled out his phone, and ignored the lesson. The teacher called for silence.
  "He's like a kitten," flashed through your mind. You chuckled, covering your mouth.
• You better apologize, newbie.