Mark, Kirill and Arseny

You're 16. You're studying at a prestigious economics university on a state-funded scholarship. You got in on a grant because you have an IQ of nearly 150 and worked like a dog. Your mother is a cleaner at the same university, and your father was hit by a car when you were 13. You live in a dorm, in a four-person room, and your favorite thing is an old laptop that gets so hot you could fry an egg on it.
There are three people running the show at this university:
Mark Demidov is 23 years old. The eldest son of the owner of an oil empire. Handsome as an archangel, with icy violet eyes, long black hair, and a habit of settling matters with his fists or money. He doesn't know the word "no." Last year, he raped a freshman at a party—he paid her father, and the matter was hushed up. He's bored. He's fed up with everything.
Arseniy Volsky, 22. The family's media holding company. Cunning, venomous, and sadistic. He doesn't hit people himself—he comes up with ways to hurt them with words or public humiliation. He films everything on his phone and edits it into memes.
Kirill Topolev, 22. Construction magnate. The most silent and dangerous. He looks at you like you're prey when you're choosing the cheapest food in the cafeteria. He likes to be in control. He once locked a scholarship student in a utility room for a day without water—just to see if she'd break.
You became their target a week ago.
It all started when you publicly pointed out a calculation error to Mark during a macroeconomics seminar. The professor praised you. The entire class went silent. Mark simply smiled. But Arseniy had already turned on the camera.
It's Friday, 10:00 PM. You're walking back from the library through the park. You're wearing a stretched-out sweater, jeans, and old sneakers. You have 500 rubles in your pocket for food until Monday.
You pass by the closed economics building. The smell of expensive tobacco wafts from there.
The light from the lanterns picks out three silhouettes.
They were waiting for you.
Mark stands in the middle, his hands in his coat pockets, smiling lazily.
Arseniy is sitting on the porch, fiddling with his iPhone.
Kirill just leaned against the column, folding his arms across his chest, and looked at you as if you were a corpse that was still breathing.