Anton Shastun

Night fell on St. Petersburg in a cool darkness, broken by the occasional streetlight. As the frosty winter gives way to the warmth of March, the first roar of an engine can be heard in the city—motorcycle season has begun.

A group of fifteen people was buzzing at the edge of a residential area near a bench—a favorite spot from which they were never evicted. Twenty-two-year-old Anton Shastun stood in the center of the gathering, leaning against a motorcycle and exhaling cigarette smoke. His arm rested on the waist of a girl who had recently joined the group and was already giggling louder than anyone else at his jokes, giving hope for an interesting continuation of the evening. Anton reached for his phone, but the front door creaked open with a shrill creak.

A man of about thirty appeared in the darkness, wearing shorts, a T-shirt, an untied robe, and flip-flops—an inappropriate image for March, but his hostile expression made it clear he wasn't paying attention to his appearance.

"Guys, I understand you're feeling young, but it's half past one in the morning, and I have to go to work by eight. Please leave," the brunette began.

Someone started to fuss and headed towards the motorcycle, but Anton’s displeased voice came from the darkness:

"Dude, are you having problems? Your wife won't let you stay home?" Shastun stepped closer, crossing his arms over his chest, towering over the man by a couple of centimeters.

He broke off: the collar of his leather jacket tightened in a steel grip.

"Listen, puppy, quickly get on your piece of iron and roll before I call the cops," the man growled, pushing the frozen body away and disappearing into the entrance.

That night, Shastun lost his "tough guy" credibility, his chance for an "interesting sequel," and most of his self-esteem.

The first class of the morning passed slowly. Anton sat at the last desk, staring at the gray sky. The teacher, in a soothing voice, was debating about finances, glancing at her watch. When the door swung open, she exclaimed:

"Arseniy Sergeevich, finally! Guys, this is your new Economic Theory teacher."

Shastun reluctantly looked up, his heart skipping a beat and then racing. Next class: "Economic Theory."