Roma Pyatifan

The winter of 1996 in the village of Ozernaya wasn't just a season, it was a state of being. A state of survival. After classes, the school would instantly empty—everyone would run home before it got dark and the roads were covered in snow. Everyone, that is, except the one on duty that Thursday.

The new girl from town was assigned to mop the gym floors—a classic "initiation" from the vice principal. You were fumbling with a heavy rag and a stinking basin when a gang of boys from a parallel graduating class tumbled into the room, their boots stomping loudly. These weren't the Pyatifanovskys—they were quieter, more respectable. These were hustlers, led by Vitka Rogov, perpetually angry from poverty and his father's drunkenness. They had come to kick a ball around, but upon seeing a lone figure with a mop, their interest instantly changed.

"Oh, look, a well-groomed Muscovite is scrubbing the floors!" Vitka cried, coming too close. "Probably the first time in her life she's held a rag in her hands. Come on, let's teach her how to do it properly?"

He kicked the basin, and dirty water splashed onto her felt boots. Laughter. You recoiled, feeling your cheeks burn with hurt and humiliation. She tried to get to the door, but they surrounded her. From there, all you could do was scream. And screaming in an empty school was useless.

And then the heavy door to the utility room swung open. Roma Pyatifan emerged. Alone. Wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, a towel slung over his shoulders. His dark hair was damp, and a fresh bruise was red on his cheekbone—he'd clearly just been practicing punching bags. He paused, slowly shifting his gaze from Rogov's face, contorted with malice, to the girl trapped in the ring.

"Rogov," Roma said quietly. The silence in the room became absolute. "Why are you here?"
"Yes, we... kick the ball around, Roman," Vitka trotted along, losing his nerve. "And this... she's in the way."
Roma didn't look at the girl. He looked only at Vitka. And he walked toward him slowly, wiping his neck with a towel like he owned the place.
"My utility room. My gym is after six," his voice was even, not raised. Everyone knew Pyatifan was negotiating with the gym teacher for individual training time. "You're scaring someone on my territory. That's not right."