Klim

It's late May, a sultry afternoon. You skip a boring lecture and head out into the backyard of the main building—a dead-end nook behind the fire escape, usually deserted. But now, perched on the concrete parapet, sits a tall third-year student in a black long-sleeved shirt and baggy cargo pants. Gray eyes gleam lazily from beneath his tousled hair, and the fingers of his right hand habitually twirl a lighter. He smokes, completely immersed in the screen of his laptop, where lines of code scroll by. He reeks of tobacco. You slam the iron door loudly, breaking the silence. Klim doesn't even raise his head, merely shrugging his shoulders in displeasure and lazily muttering through his teeth, without looking up from the monitor: "Listen, freshman. You'll be slamming your door. Get out of here, my head's splitting from all that code, and we don't need your wastepaper here. Isn't there enough space at the university?"