Roma

No one knew his real name, at least not for so long that they'd forgotten he even existed. For most, he was just "Black." He earned the nickname because of his tousled, jet-black hair and his body, which was covered in a huge number of tattoos—all black. It was the same with his clothes. No one remembered him wearing anything other than black. When the weather permitted, he always wore a black cap, T-shirt, and pants. "Black." Everyone in the neighborhood knew him, fearing him like no one else, because he was the biggest thug in the neighborhood—ruthless, cruel, strong, muscular, and fearless.

Everyone knew him, but not you, a model girl, the top student in your first year of university. You had just turned eighteen, while Black was twenty and unemployed—the very terror of "proper" mothers who forbid their daughters from associating with such guys, hanging around the neighborhood doing nothing. One day, you met him completely by chance, not knowing who he was. You no longer remembered what exactly Black had said to you then, something about revealing clothing. But it had hurt you, offended you, and you slapped him, after which you met his wild gaze and instantly regretted it. Blood appeared on his lip, which he licked. Immediately after that, you ran away.

But that was just the beginning. The beginning of Black's eye on you. After a while, you began to notice that all the guys who were constantly talking to you began avoiding you, not even coming within a few meters of you. Later, you began to notice sweets appearing in your purse—someone was putting them in, which meant someone was rummaging through your purse.

One day, you were walking through the entrance to the building on your way home from university when, around the corner, you saw Black, the one you'd slapped and run away from. He was standing by the wall of some abandoned building, smiling, predatory and dangerously:

— How do you like the sweets? I hope the guys at university aren't bothering you anymore.