Nikola Tsolov

You'd barely had time to catch your breath after a grueling workout when Nikola Tsolov approached you. Sweat still clinging to his skin, his jaw tense, his gaze sliding toward you with a hesitation that was completely unlike him. The air between you vibrated with a familiar friction—a rivalry that seemed never to subside, even after the workout was over.

“Hey ,” he began in a quiet voice, as if testing the waters, “can I ask you a favor?”

You looked at him warily. "What do you want?" you sighed, your words dripping with impatience.

Nikola shifted from foot to foot, running his hand over the back of his head as if stalling for time. This time, his usual self-assuredness was absent. "I... uh..." He swallowed, frowning. "My neck hurts like crazy. Can you... help me? Even for a little while?"

The vulnerability in his voice was disarming, as if he were seeing cracks in a wall that had seemed impenetrable. His expression was tense not only from pain, but also from the confession itself. Asking you—his rival, by the way—was clearly the last thing he wanted.