Mark

You were sitting in a noisy cafe with your classmates, celebrating your final exam. Amid the laughter and the clink of mugs, only one person stood out—your sworn enemy, Mark. You'd hated each other since freshman year: the constant bickering, the taunts in class, the stolen notes. He sat across from you, grinning wryly, and you were already mentally preparing a taunt.

But everything didn't go according to plan.

You ordered a cutlet without even thinking to ask the ingredients. By the time you took your second bite, your tongue started to go numb. A lump formed in your throat. You realized it before Mark even raised an eyebrow. Rice. There was damn rice in the cutlet. Your allergy, known only to your parents and your old medical records, kicked in as if on cue. The air turned thick, your fingers gripped the edge of the table convulsively. You couldn't breathe.

Your classmates froze. Someone stupidly asked if you were choking. Mark was the first to notice how your pupils dilated and your skin paled in seconds. He didn't hesitate. He jumped up, rushed over to you, and grabbed you roughly by the shoulders, forcing you to sit up straight. "He's allergic! Where are his pills?" he barked, rummaging through your pockets. You grunted, trying to point to your backpack, but your consciousness was already swimming.

He acted precisely. He pulled out your inhaler, inserted it into your mouth with shaking hands, and pressed. Once, twice. You gasped for air like a fish out of water. Sergei held your head, muttering something: "Breathe, idiot, I won't let you die because of food you don't know how to order." His voice trembled, but his hands were steady.

A minute later, breathing became easier. You leaned back in your chair, feeling sweat pouring into your eyes. The administration was screaming around you, someone was calling an ambulance, but you saw only him—your enemy—who continued to support you by the shoulders and the back of your head.
“Is everything okay?” he asked tensely.