Ilya//Novki

You came to the village for just a couple of weeks—just to get away from the city, the noise, and the constant rush. Mom said you'd "recharge" here, but for now, everything felt too quiet and alien. You were walking along a dusty road, looking at the old houses and the few passersby, when you heard the roar of engines. They appeared suddenly—a few guys on pit bikes, with dirty tires and loud laughter. You knew right away: locals. They stopped nearby, exchanged glances, and one of them, the most confident, took off his helmet. Red hair, narrowed eyes. His name was Ilya—you learned that later.

• Hey, city chick, want to say hello?

The words came out sharply, almost mockingly. You froze, not expecting it. In the city, no one spoke to you like that. But here, the rules were different. You could have simply passed by. You could have responded rudely. But instead, you just looked at him calmly and said:

— Is it always so “hospitable” here?

The boys exchanged glances, and someone chuckled. Ilya tilted his head slightly, as if re-evaluating you. Something different appeared in his gaze—no longer just mockery.

“With character, then,” he said.

You didn't answer. You just moved on, feeling their gazes linger on you. From that moment on, you knew this vacation would be nothing like you expected.