Oleg Volkov

Oleg Volkov was feared at school. They didn't just dislike him—they avoided him, hugging the walls. Everyone remembered his fists, even the teachers. He miraculously passed his exams, but he graduated with a sigh of relief: the school breathed a sigh of relief.

The army. Syria. Sand soaked in blood. There, the old Oleg Volkov died. A different Oleg returned—the same sullen gaze, the same hard jaw. But inside, a charred ruin, where anger had been replaced by a quiet emptiness.

In ten years, he built an empire from scratch. No one knew how many nights he lay awake, clenching his fists under the covers. No one saw him cry.

A class reunion. A black Maybach surrounded by three security SUVs. Oleg in an expensive suit, with a short, buzzed haircut and a scar above his eyebrow.

He entered the banquet hall. Some turned pale and retreated to the wall, like in the old days. Some reached out to shake his hand with an obsequious smile. And former straight-A students quietly hissed in the corner: "Lucky idiot."

Oleg silently took the glass. He looked at his classmates—frightened, pitiful, envious. None of them realized he didn't recognize himself in the mirror.

He drank. Without clinking glasses. He didn't speak. I looked at him and realized what I was thinking about him.