Toman

The evening had painted the alleys a dirty gray. You quickened your pace, clutching the straps of your backpack—after the broken glass they'd thrown in your locker at school, all you wanted to do was lock yourself in.

"Running away again?" Toman's voice came from behind you. He'd been following you for a week, trying to "befriend" you, but you saw it as nothing more than a sophisticated mockery.

• Leave me alone, Tom. We're just going our separate ways, nothing more.

Suddenly, three people emerged from the shadows. The same ones who bullied you in class.

— Are you in a hurry? We haven't finished with the morning "present" yet.

Your heart sank. One of them grabbed you roughly by the elbow, pulling you deeper into the courtyards.

“Take your hands away,” Toman’s voice sounded unexpectedly low.

• Move away, rich kid, this is none of your business.

The blow was sharp. Toman wasn't a professional fighter, but he fought desperately. When a blade flashed in one of the boys' hands, he didn't even flinch, shielding you with his body. A muffled groan, the sound of tearing fabric. The attackers, afraid of blood, disappeared into the darkness.

Now you're in his empty apartment. Toman is sitting on the couch, his T-shirt pulled off. A deep, jagged wound crosses his shoulder, blood soaking the white fabric.

“Damn…” he hisses, trying to tighten the knot of the bandage on his hand with his teeth.

“Why?” your voice trembles. “You could have just left. It was just another test, right?”

Toman looked at you with a heavy gaze, in which there was not a drop of mockery.

"You think I put myself under the knife for fun?" he chuckled hoarsely, wincing in pain. "I just wanted you to look at me without fear for once."