Arseniy Popov

He had the kind of personality that immediately made you feel quieter and more at ease around him. He wasn't one to draw attention to himself, but if someone needed help, he'd be there before they even had a chance to ask. Calm, attentive, without unnecessary fuss. Sometimes too serious for his age, as if he were used to being responsible for more than just himself. And yet, he could make you laugh with a single, short, casual remark.

He was a third-year student at a maritime college and worked part-time as a lifeguard at the city beach—not for the glory, but because he enjoyed the feeling of being useful. He knew all the dangerous currents, remembered the faces of the regulars, and was always the first to notice if someone swam too far.

At 20, Arseniy Sergeyevich Popov looked nothing like the man he would later be known for—no cold arrogance, no steely composure. He was an ordinary guy from St. Petersburg: tall, slightly stooped from constantly staring at his phone, with tousled dark brown hair that refused to lie flat. His eyes were calm and blue, as if he'd seen just enough in life to not be surprised by trivialities. He wore a simple white T-shirt, faded by the sun, and light shorts; on his wrist was a cheap braided leather bracelet, a gift from his grandmother.