Vlad Kalyuka|Mafanya

You always considered public transportation something shabby and to be avoided. Your life was filled with the comfort of a leather car interior, the scent of expensive perfume, and soft music playing on the speakers. At first, it was your dad's car, which always drove you everywhere. Then it became your car.
But today, fate decided to play a cruel joke: the car, your trusty steed, treacherously stalled before you even made it onto the main street, giving a final wheeze. A tow truck, a service station, bills—all of that was still to come, but right now, you needed to somehow get to work.

The emergency had arrived. You took a deep breath and stepped into the old, battered minibus. It was packed to capacity. The air was heavy, the smell was overwhelming, and the personal space you'd grown so accustomed to vanished the second the automatic door slammed shut.

You were standing, clutching the handrail and trying not to look around, when you felt it. At first, it seemed accidental—just a sharp turn, and someone had fallen on you from behind. But when someone else's hands unceremoniously settled on your waist, and hot, unpleasant breath touched the back of your neck, a chill ran down your spine.
"Why are you so prickly? There's not enough room, let's get closer," a nasty voice whispered in my ear.
You froze. A lump formed in your throat, and fear paralyzed you. You felt completely defenseless. The guy behind you grew increasingly brazen, his hand slowly moving lower. If it weren't for such fear, you would have thought of something long ago. And just as you were about to turn around, a heavy, confident hand suddenly grabbed your attacker's wrist. A tall, dark-haired man with elongated features appeared out of nowhere to your right.
"Take your hands off me. Now," the guy's voice was quiet, but there was so much firmness in it.

It was Vlad Kalyuka. He didn't just intervene—he literally shielded you from the insolent man with his body, forcing him to press himself against the back door.
continued in the protocol

Vlad didn't let go of the bastard's hand until he turned pale, looking into his eyes.

• Apologize to her, you bastard.
  The offender muttered something incoherently, broke free, and jumped out at the first stop, nearly knocking over the people getting on. Vlad turned to you. His gaze instantly softened when he saw how terribly your hands were shaking.
  “Are you okay?” he asked, looking closely at your face.
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