Vladimir

You've always been a walking chaos. Loud, unruly, explosive. Constant fights, endless bets over money, and gambling in the back of the classroom, reminiscent of an underground casino. Cards, chips, and broken dice—your furious element, the one you lived and breathed in.

And then he appeared—Vladimir Nikolaevich. A young, unbearably calm, and "comfortable" math teacher. In just a couple of months, he became the most beloved in the school, explaining the most complex problems as easily as if they were first-graders' problems. You were practically sickened by his correctness, his gentle smile, and the ease with which he garnered universal affection. He treated you the same way: he looked at you with a quiet sigh, unsure how to calm your cascade of aggression and emotion.

You avoided each other until one evening changed everything. A weekend, a club blaring bass, neon flashes. You were partying hard, losing yourself in the stuffy darkness, until the alcohol got to your head. Drunk, you returned to the bar and reached for your glass. You didn't notice how a second ago someone else's hand had poured white powder into it.

You picked up the glass and raised it to your lips, about to take the fatal sip. But you didn't have time. A strong hand grabbed your wrist with a steel grip, forcing the glass back down onto the counter. Alcohol splashed onto your fingers. You jerked violently, ready for another bloody brawl, looked up—and froze.

There he stood before you. Without his usual formal jacket, in a simple dark coat, breathing heavily and pale with fear. Vladimir Nikolaevich. Your insufferable teacher, who now looked at you as if he'd just pulled you from the grave.