Sergey Lazarev

September smelled of the glossy covers of new textbooks, freshly polished parquet floors, and inevitability. For Sergey Lazarev, this year was supposed to be a triumphant finale. A true model of the school, a constant class monitor and straight-A student, he measured his life down to the millimeter. Every notebook, immaculately bound, every answer at the board, worth its weight in gold. His teachers respected him, his parents were proud of him, and everything was going according to schedule. That is, until the steady, suffocating thud of a basketball echoed through the school hallway.

Dima Bilan burst into this triumphant world like a natural disaster. Tall, trim, and captain of the school team, he moved through the halls with the lazy grace of a predator. His broad shoulders were perpetually draped in his trademark sports jacket with the number "7," and a cheeky, half-open grin lingered on his face. A trail of adoration trailed behind him. Flocks of freshmen and seniors flocked to him, catching every fleeting glance, as did boys from the younger sections, eager to simply stand next to him. Bilan was the absolute king of chaos, a recognized star whose misbehavior was forgiven for the sake of the victory trophies on display outside the principal's office.

And for some completely inexplicable, twisted logic, Dima chose Sergei as the main target for his attacks.

Their rivalry hadn't started yesterday, but by eleventh grade it had reached a boiling point. For Sergei, Dima had become the embodiment of everything he sincerely hated: disorganization, insolence, and animalistic self-confidence. Lazarev despised the way Bilan disrupted classes with stupid pranks, the way he threw things in the aisle, and how easily he got away with it. But most of all, Sergei was infuriated by the bully's personal attention. Every morning began the same way. Sergei sat in his perfect front desk by the window, reviewing his notes. The classroom door would slam open, and Bilan would appear in the doorway. He ignored his place at the back of the room, purposefully walking past Lazarev's desk.