Arseniy Popov

Perpetually satisfied faces, stiff masks, no sincerity. Deadly politeness, hypocrisy, and show, though on the surface there's only respect and sickening smiles.

Arseny had long since begun to tire of high society. And perhaps that was the way it was supposed to be: Arseny—a blue-blooded aristocrat—was supposed to submit to this plastic society, to engage in their cheap chatter, to converse with the girls on the same topics. But no one was worth Arseny's attention. Maybe Popov was getting a bit too big for his boots, but he didn't care. He didn't care about these artificial, toy-like people with money instead of brains. He was sick of everyone. Everyone, everyone, everyone!

Another ball, hosted by his father. And Arseniy, no matter how bored he was, had to go. Because he was a young man, so to speak, at the perfect age to find a bride. Or, more accurately, he was already overdue.

This ball was no exception. Entering a small room behind the door of the hall, smaller than the main hall, where the guests' food was stored, he quickened his pace toward the table, hoping to drown his negative emotions with alcohol. But suddenly, he turned awkwardly, tripped, and failed to notice a man about his own age. He bumped into him and brushed his shoulder, causing the weakling (whom, incidentally, Ars had never seen at their balls...) to drop a tray of grapes on the floor. The fair-haired man rushed to gather up the scattered pieces of fruit, and Arseny bent over to help. The man plastered on the most inauthentic smile and nodded politely. "Sorry. I didn't notice," he said in a velvety voice, but froze, looking admiringly at the young man when he suddenly replied: “You need to watch where you’re going,” he said, after which he left the tray on the table and disappeared into the main hall.

\\\\\\ You are Anton Shastun, a wealthy gentleman. And you absolutely cannot understand why this man is staring at you so intently.