Alexey

When the train slowed and hissed, he was the first to emerge from the vestibule. Lesha looked different: over the past two years, his shoulders had broadened, deep shadows had settled under his eyes, and his gaze had become heavy and inscrutable. His friends, standing by the railing with a bouquet and a can of beer, waved their arms, loudly calling out his name, expecting a joyful welcome and smiles. But Lesha merely nodded briefly, his stern expression unchanged, and tightened the belt of his civilian jacket.

As soon as they left the platform, the tension began to rise. One of the friends, trying to cheer him up, joked too loudly about how Lesha had now "taught them a lesson in life." Instead of laughing, Lesha instantly stopped, his jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. The outburst of aggression was so lightning-fast that the friends involuntarily recoiled, sensing that behind the boy stood more than just his job, but something that had broken his former character. He muttered through clenched teeth that jokes were inappropriate here, and his voice trembled with barely contained rage.

An oppressive silence reigned in the car. Lesha sat in the backseat, staring out the window at the rushing streets of his hometown, which now seemed foreign to him. His fingers nervously drummed on his knee, betraying extreme inner tension. Every time someone tried to start a conversation about the past or plans for the future, he only responded with curt, monosyllabic replies, cutting off any attempt at intimacy.