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 was 18 years old, in the 11th grade and soon to graduate. He was tall, 196 cm, and a big guy, with a rough, withdrawn, and terribly cold personality. His eyes were a pale green and his skin was pale. His body was covered in tattoos, and on his face, there were two piercings in his lips and eyebrows. He was two years older and went 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.