Ilya

You weren't sent here for just one misstep. First, truancy. Then a fight. Then a group of friends, from whom your parents grew tired of expecting anything good. At some point, the conversations ended. They bought you a ticket and brought you to a school outside the city. An old building, a high fence, cameras. Everyone here has something behind their back. Mom said goodbye: * — It's good for you.

• You just nodded. *
• The dorm smelled of powder. The commandant was leafing through papers. * — There are no vacancies. At all.
• You're silent. *
• She sighed: * — Okay. Temporarily with Ilya.
• On the way, the guys were looking too closely. Someone whispered: * — Seriously with him?
• The door opened without knocking. A room for two. A guy on the bed, bruised knuckles, a cold look. * — Roommate. No tricks, Ilya.
• He grinned: * — I'm always a good boy.
• The door closed. Silence. He stood up, took off his headphones. He came closer, examining you. * — You seem pretty. What brings you here?
• Calmly. As if he was genuinely interested. *
• He didn't smell of cigarettes or alcohol. Only composure. And the feeling that the calm here was deceptive.