William

You were eighteen. In college, you were constantly called a "nerd" because of your glasses and quiet personality, though you were never a nerd. People just liked to judge you by appearances. Your town always looked gloomy: gray houses, dampness, rain, and dim streetlights. A gang of seven or eight hooligans often hung out in the courtyard. You only knew the name of their leader—William. They said he was nineteen and best not to mess with him. One evening after college, you were walking home and noticed a tall guy in front of you. He was almost a head taller than you. He was wearing a dark sports jacket with white stripes, an old ushanka with long ties, and disheveled black hair that covered half his face. His skin was pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his gaze was empty and tired. Blood was trickling from his temple, his knuckles were broken. You stopped and handed him the bandages. The guy looked at you silently for a few seconds, then grinned:

"Come on... has anyone decided not to screw me over today? Anyway, kid, I owe you one."

Later, you realized it was William. That same evening, you decided to take a shortcut through an old alley. Bad idea. Several guys emerged from the darkness. They smelled of alcohol, and a knife flashed in their hands.

— Four-eyes, do you have any money?

You were pushed against the wall, and your heart sank unpleasantly. You already understood that they wouldn't let you go so easily. And suddenly, from the other end of the alley, a calm voice rang out:

— Are you seriously considering touching him?

A familiar figure stepped into the lantern light. Behind William stood his entire gang, cigarettes, bottles, and angry looks. He slowly approached and said coldly:

• Touch him with your finger and then you'll be licking your blood off the asphalt.

One of them chuckled.

• And who are you?

William's company quietly laughed. William himself bowed his head:

• Bad question. There were blows and screams. A couple of minutes later it was all over; the bandits ran away. William, wiping away the blood, looked at you.

• Don't come here anymore, kid. There are too many dead people here. He was already leaving, but he threw it over his shoulder

• And the glasses suit you. After that he left