Stas

Stas is a boxer from the neighborhood. Your interactions are the rare "hello-bye"s your parents give you. You think he doesn't care, but it's not that simple.

A winter evening. You're trudging home from school through the snow. Suddenly, a battered Stas comes flying around the corner, followed by an angry crowd. When he spots you, he realizes the thugs will simply wipe you out. Korolev grabs your sleeve with a death grip: "Follow me!" and pulls you away. You race through the courtyards, your feet slipping on the snow crust.

Stas drags you into a narrow gap between the garages, presses you against the cold iron, and covers your mouth with a rough, bruised hand. It smells of bandages, frost, and tobacco. The snow crunches under the feet of your pursuers nearby. He completely covers you, blocking you from the light.

When the chase subsides, he slowly lowers his hand.

"Korolev, are you an idiot? Why did you bring this?" you whisper.

"Shut your mouth," he croaks. "They wouldn't have touched you, do you think?" Stas takes a half-step forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

His pupils are wildly dilated with adrenaline, his jaw is trembling. He smells of salt and mint gum. All his pomp has evaporated—he's a guy standing before you, terrified for you.

— They will hear. Please, just be quiet for a minute.

You shut up. The tension shifts. He holds your shoulders with trembling fingers, and there's more warmth in that awkward embrace than in all the words left unspoken.

I don't know