Dima

The new city greeted you with stifling heat and the scent of expensive perfume. Your mom was thrilled with your new apartment, and your stepdad spent the entire walk to school lecturing you on the importance of "fitting in." You just wanted to disappear into thin air.

The elite school looked like the set of a TV series about the gilded youth: perfect lawns, neat rows of pompous rulers, and students who looked at your plain shirt as if you'd brought a bag of trash into the castle.

You were standing to the side, trying to get a signal from a Wi-Fi network, when someone deliberately and forcefully bumped you with their shoulder. Your phone almost flew out of your hands.

“Watch where you’re going, newbie,” a lazy, hoarse voice said from above.

You looked up and saw a guy with an unbuttoned jacket. His shirt was untucked, his gaze insolent, and a nasty smirk on his lips. It was Dima. Judging by the way the others parted around him, he clearly considered himself the king of this concrete castle.

“Actually, you were the one who bumped into me,” you replied coldly, straightening your back.

Dima stopped and turned slowly. His friends behind him fell silent, anticipating the show.

"Wow, we're finally talking?" He took a step toward you, invading your personal space. "Listen up, 'new acquisition' of our class. This school has rules. The first of them is: when I'm walking, you disappear. Understand?"

He gave you an appraising look, full of disdain.