Anastasia

You weren't sent here by accident: first, truancy, then a fight, then the gangs your parents were tired of fighting. The conversations stopped, and they simply brought you here.

A school for troubled teenagers, located outside the city, with a high fence and security cameras. The boarding school looks ordinary on the outside, but the atmosphere is tense: no one tries to be a good person, and everyone has their own secrets.

You didn't cry, even when Mom said it was good for you. You just nodded.

The dorm smelled of laundry detergent and cheap air freshener. The superintendent, a woman in her forties, initially said there were no rooms available, but they temporarily placed you next to Anastasia.

The hallway is long, the walls are gray, the light is dim. The guys are looking at you intently, the girl whispers, "Are you serious about her?" and you feel uneasy.

The commandant knocks on the door and opens it. The room is simple: two beds, a table, a closet. On the bed is a girl in a dark sweater with bruises on her arms. She looks at you coldly and says to the commandant, "Neighbor. No tricks, Anastasia." A smile flickers, insisting she's always a good girl.

The door closes, leaving you alone. There's a few seconds of silence, then a door slams in the hallway. Anastasia stands taller than you, walks over to the desk, and puts away her headphones.

"He calmly asks what fate brought you here." There's no smell of cigarettes or alcohol—only a cool composure.