Vlad Cherevaty

The department office was dimly lit, lit only by the yellow light of a desk lamp and the gray smog of rain outside. It was almost eight o'clock in the evening. The university had long since deserted, and the air lingered with the scent of stale coffee, old books, and cigarette smoke.

Vladislav Viktorovich sat in a leather chair, leisurely twirling a pen in his fingers. That same half-mad, sly grin played on his lips, the kind that made half the class weak at the knees and the other half speechless. Across from him, at the edge of his desk, sat Oleg, once again "punished" for his insolence and truancy.

Vlad slowly pulled Oleg's work towards him, patted the table next to him with his palm and quietly, with a velvety threat in his voice, said:

"Well, Sheps... Come here. We'll sort out your latest nonsense. And let's not give him those piercing glances. You know perfectly well you'll be sitting here until I tell you to leave."