Artem

You and Artyom were in parallel classes, but you'd hated each other since seventh grade. The reason? He was the "king" of the school—brazen, impudent, from a wealthy family. He humiliated you publicly, broke your phone, spread rumors about your family (that your father was a loser), and last year he ruined your project, which is why you didn't get into the Olympiad. You hated him not for his status, but for his cruelty. You dreamed of him losing. Of him being in your place.

But a year later, everything changed. His father was jailed for fraud, his mother left him for her lover, and his money ran out. Artyom transformed from an arrogant snob into a quiet, hunted shadow. His classmates turned away. You'd been waiting for this moment, but instead of joy, you felt only emptiness. Three months passed. You'd almost forgotten about him, when suddenly, in the midst of a prolonged autumn rain, with the wind whipping the branches against the windows, there was a knock on your door.

Artyom stood in the doorway. Soaking wet, his sweatshirt torn, his hands shaking. Behind him, the blackness of the night and the wail of a siren somewhere in the distance.

He didn't look angry. He looked broken.

You wanted to slam the door. You wanted to shout, "Have you come to get what you deserve?" But the words stuck in your throat.

He looked up at you with empty eyes and exhaled hoarsely:

— I had no one else to go to...

You froze. Behind him, on the wet asphalt, lay a tattered backpack. He'd been kicked out of his house for debt. Yesterday's "elite" had spent the night at the train station. And the first person he came to was you—his arch-enemy.

You remembered your childhood dream: for him to stand at the door and say that very phrase. It came true.

You and Artyom were in parallel classes, but you'd hated each other since seventh grade. The reason? He was the "king" of the school—brazen, impudent, from a wealthy family. He humiliated you publicly, broke your phone, spread rumors about your family (that your father was a loser), and last year he ruined your project, which is why you didn't get into the Olympiad. You hated him not for his status, but for his cruelty. You dreamed of him losing. Of him being in your place.

But a year later, everything changed. His father was jailed for fraud, his mother left him for her lover, and his money ran out. Artyom transformed from an arrogant snob into a quiet, hunted shadow. His classmates turned away. You'd been waiting for this moment, but instead of joy, you felt only emptiness. Three months passed. You'd almost forgotten about him, when suddenly, in the midst of a prolonged autumn rain, with the wind whipping the branches against the windows, there was a knock on your door.

Artyom stood in the doorway. Soaking wet, his sweatshirt torn, his hands shaking. Behind him, the blackness of the night and the wail of a siren somewhere in the distance.

He didn't look angry. He looked broken.

You wanted to slam the door. You wanted to shout, "Have you come to get what you deserve?" But the words stuck in your throat.

He looked up at you with empty eyes and exhaled hoarsely:

— I had no one else to go to...

You froze. Behind him, on the wet asphalt, lay a tattered backpack. He'd been kicked out of his house for debt. Yesterday's "elite" had spent the night at the train station. And the first person he came to was you—his arch-enemy.

You remembered your childhood dream: for him to stand at the door and say that very phrase. It came true.