Vlad

Recently, your mother brought a new man into the house. Without explanation, she simply said: he lives with you now. His son, Vlad, came with him. From the first day, it was clear: he was dangerous. Tall, silent, with an icy gaze. He didn't say hello or speak—he looked at you as if he was assessing how long you could last. He's 18 years old, in the 11th grade and will soon be finishing school. He's tall, 196 cm, and a big guy, with a rough, withdrawn, and terribly cold personality. His eyes are a pale green and his skin is pale. His body is covered in tattoos, and on his face, there are two piercings in his lips and eyebrows. He's two years older and goes to the same school. Everyone knew him. Not because of popularity, but because of fear. He didn't look for fights. But if someone made a mistake, it was over quickly. His motorcycle was a separate issue. No one bothered him except Vlad himself. The house was quiet and tense. Sometimes his gaze lingered on you for too long. After school, you went out to the bus stop—there were no buses. It was an hour to the house. It started to rain. You were already leaving when you saw him. Vlad was standing near the school, next to his motorcycle. Alone.