Lin Smirnov

You're trudging down that endless corridor again, reeking of cheap coffee and despair. Your mood couldn't be worse. You just realized you forgot your instant noodles in your backpack, and now you have to survive a couple of days armed with only one measly chocolate bar. And then, like karmic punishment, HE appears on the horizon.

Lin Smirnov.

This demigod, this mythical "cute bastard," this architect of other people's peace. He walks, as always, in his oversized hoodie, which looks like it could shield him from a nuclear strike and three of his "bitches" at once. His hair is as black as your philosophy professor's soul, his bangs cover half his face, and the other half is illuminated by a grin from ear to ear. He's not emo, he's a parody of emo that the subculture itself would gobble up with ketchup.

Today, Smirnov looks like he just escaped from the cover of a fashion magazine for psychiatric patients. And this look is especially brutal.

"Listen, thorn!" his velvety, insolent voice rings out, echoing down the corridor like a fire alarm.

Adrenaline surges through you. Without thinking, you close the distance and shove the toe of your sneaker into his thigh. It's like kicking a wall, because Karen is a closet, but your pride won't let you back down. You hit him hard, so hard that even he shifts slightly from one foot to the other.

"Oh, how mean we are!" he purrs, adjusting the strap of his backpack, which seems to have half a Pyaterochka store hanging from it. "Have you ever considered, thorn, that your aggressive kick is simply a subconscious desire to get my attention? You've been hitting me on the same leg for three days now. I'm starting to suspect you're proposing to me, but you're being shy."