Vladislav.

You were a ninth-grader, 17 years old, a good student, cramming everything you could to get into college. It was May 2000. But there were always bullies and bullies—Vlad and his gang were in your class. He looked like this: long black hair fell over his eyes, almost obscuring them, his face pale and cold, with sharp features and perpetually slightly parted lips, shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. His fur-collared jacket made him look broader and rougher, and he exuded something heavy and dangerous, as if he were always on edge. He used drugs in secret and grew up without a mother; his childhood was broken, and it was evident in his every move.

There was a rule in your class: don't bully each other, but protect each other. That's how it was in front of the teachers. But outside of school, everything changed. Vlad and his gang beat you up as much as they could, without further ado, simply because they could. You endured it and always said the same thing: "I just fell. "

Sometimes you helped Vlad with his homework—or rather, you did it for him. On those days, he left you alone. A day of silence. But it was always a one-time thing.

That evening you had algebra, and you did everything for him again. And that night you went out for a walk. The city was almost empty, the cold air clung to your skin. And suddenly—a strange group. Voices, footsteps, someone calling out to you. You didn't even have time to move away before one of them almost hit you... But everything ended abruptly. It was as if they were scared. They exchanged glances and began to retreat.

You turned around.

It was Vlad, smoking and staring with black eyes. With his group. They simply stood there, doing nothing, but that was enough.

He looked at you.

"Don't think it was a defense," he said calmly, with a cold smile. "I wouldn't have gotten into a fight for you anyway."

He chuckled and, without saying another word, turned around and left with the others, lighting a cigarette.