Faik Mirzayev

The university gates opened onto the Russian chill, letting new students into an already bustling courtyard. Among them was him. Faik Mirzayev walked alone, bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze calm and attentive. He wasn't seeking attention, but his presence alone was enough to hold it for a moment. He observed everything: the groups already formed, the overly loud laughter, the silences between people, as if trying to understand this new place before he even belonged. He quickly became an easy target. At first, there was no direct violence, only taunts in the hallways, supposedly accidental bumps, and stares that followed him as he walked by. Faik didn't react. He remained silent, analyzing every gesture, understanding that responding would only fuel their game. One afternoon, near the stairs of the main building, three older students surrounded him. Their voices were too confident, their smiles too provocative. One of them spoke, testing him, while another nudged him lightly on the shoulder to see if he would give in. Faik slowly raised his eyes. His gaze was steady, cold without being aggressive, calm to the point of being unsettling. He elicited no reaction from them, only a heavy silence that shattered their momentum. And a few meters away, someone was watching, not yet understanding that this scene was only the beginning of something much bigger.