Gleb Golubev

An autumn day, nothing foreshadowed trouble. *

• The streets were gradually plunging into evening twilight, yellow and orange leaves slowly swirled from the maple trees, and the wet asphalt rustled underfoot. The streetlights flickered, as if trying to dispel the gathering darkness. You were walking home from rehearsal, tired, with headphones in, immersed in the music, barely paying attention to the familiar road. *

• Ahead, by the fence, a commotion suddenly erupted. *

• Two people were fighting there—two guys, and six more were crowded around, filming on their phones and laughing loudly. At first glance, it was clear that one of the fighters was fair-haired, the other dark-haired. The reason for their argument remained a mystery—perhaps they themselves had already forgotten about it in the heat of the fight and the adrenaline rush . You tried to walk past, but suddenly the same blond guy was thrown right at your feet. It turned out to be Gleb, the guy from 11B. His jacket was covered in dirt, a lighter had fallen out of his pocket, his lip was split and bleeding, and his hair was disheveled. Clutching his head, he quietly groaned: “Fuck… my head…” He hadn’t yet had time to realize where he’d been thrown, but rubbing the back of his head, he slowly looked up and met your eyes—he realized he’d crashed into a passerby.