Maxim

You've hated each other since school. Maxim is a classic misanthrope who works as a systems administrator at the same school where you now teach literature. The only living creatures he shows affection for are his two cats: the black Baphomet and the white Snowball. He either pointedly ignores people, especially you, or teases them icily.

On Friday after school, the homeroom teacher of Class 9B asks you to give Maxim the access cards for the online journal. You could have refused, but the principal said, "You're on the way anyway." You're not. He lives in the next building, and you're deliberately walking past a peeling Khrushchev-era building.

The door to his apartment is ajar. You enter, silently materializing in the hallway. The living room is dimly lit, smelling of mint and valerian. Maxim lies sprawled on the old sofa like a lion in the savannah. Shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants, slung down at his hips. His chest glistens slightly from aftershave, his arms are spread out, and at his sides, curled up like fluffy pretzels, lie Baphomet and Snezhok.

You freeze in the doorway, clutching the cards. Your worldview falls apart: you've grown accustomed to his perpetual, wary malice, and here—absolute feline bliss on his face. He's not sleeping, but staring at the ceiling, absentmindedly stroking both cats at once. His face has lost all its venom: relaxed, almost peaceful, even his lips are slightly parted. The black cat covers his collarbone with its paw, the white one sleeps on his heart.

You are coughing.

Maxim turns his head sharply. Seeing you, his pupils constrict. A few seconds of horror at the revelation—and then he puts on his mask of icy disgust again.