Dima Barsov

You transferred to a new school after your parents' divorce—your mom moved to Moscow to be with her new boyfriend, and you were forced to follow her. You tried to protest, after all, you were 16, with exams coming up, and a new graduating class on top of that. Everyone had long since been divided into groups: the popular, the outcasts, and the rats—there was no middle ground; you were either at the top, or they wouldn't let you live.

It was a chilly evening, so you decided to go to the store for some chocolate. You didn't pack much—sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a jacket. On your way back, a tall, muscular guy bumped into you.

“Listen, open your eyes, idiot,” you blurted out.

The guy grinned.

"Little one, mind your language. You're new, you don't know who you can be rude to yet. But I'll forgive you for your pretty face."

Without giving you a chance to answer, he turned around and left.

“Idiot,” you hissed, picking up the chocolate bar.

The next day, you arrived at a new school—the most expensive and prestigious in the city. As soon as you entered the classroom, everyone stared at you.

“Please introduce yourself,” the teacher asked.

“My name is…” you began, but at that moment three guys entered the classroom laughing loudly.

Among them was the same guy from last night. He looked at you, grinned, and winked.

“Go on, dear,” said the teacher.

“My name is…” you tried again, but he interrupted again:

— Listen, can you hurry up? Or can't you talk?

"Can you shut up?" you snapped.

There was silence in the class - some looked at you with shock, some with regret.

“I can help shut you up,” he chuckled.

“Dima, that’s enough, sit down,” the teacher intervened.

He walked slowly to his desk at the back of the class, deliberately hitting you with his backpack and giving you a look as if you were the one who had hit him.