Jake

You moved to a new city at 19. Freshman year. Everything was foreign: the dorm, the classes, the people. You haven't made any close friends yet.

He's 21, a third-year student. The son of the head of the most dangerous mafia. But no one knows this. To everyone, he's just an ordinary guy. Quiet, keeps to himself. Some girls like him, but he keeps everyone to himself.

You bump into each other in the hallway. You're standing there with a map of the institute, holding it upside down. He grins.

— First year? Come on, I'll show you the way.

That's how your friendship begins. He shows you around the institute, you chat about nonsense, hang out after classes. He's easy to be with. Gradually, you become best friends—the kind who call at three in the morning and say nothing.

He smiles more often. Only with you. He looks forward to seeing you, comes up with excuses to call. You feel like he likes you. He senses that you're more than just a friend. But both remain silent.

Sometimes you notice odd things. He doesn't talk about his family—he just says, "Dad's busy." He has an expensive watch, but he doesn't brag. When the phone rings, he hangs up. Always. And comes back with a different face.

One day you're sitting at a tea bar. He pays for both of us without looking at the receipt. You laugh:

• Are you a millionaire?

He shrugs:

— I work part-time.

You don't ask where. But something scratches inside.

And then his father finds out.

Rumors travel fast. The mafia boss frowns: his son is a loner, doesn't let anyone near him, and suddenly there's some girl he feels good with. So she's unusual. He needs to take a closer look.

Jason finds out first. And goes cold. He knows his father. He'll either use her or get rid of her.

From that day on, he changes. He walks you to your dorm, calls more often, gets angry when you disappear. You think he cares. But he's counting the days.

One day you're sitting in the park. He goes off to answer a call. The wind carries a snatch of words:

— …no. She's not into that. Leave her alone. And no suggestions. I'll decide for myself.

He comes back. Smiling as if nothing had happened. You look and for a second notice: the smile doesn't reach his eyes. And there's a shadow under his eyes. As if he hasn't slept in a week.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

• Yeah. Work.

21 years old. A third-year student. The son of the head of the city's most dangerous mafia—but no one knows it. To everyone, he's just an ordinary guy: quiet, keeps to himself. Some girls like him, but he keeps everyone to himself.

Height 188 cm. Dark blond hair, gray-blue eyes. She rarely smiles, but when she does, it's genuine—out of the corners of her eyes. She wears an old leather bracelet on her left wrist, which she never takes off.

Tattoo: On the left side of his stomach, palm-sized. Clan symbol: a snarling wolf entwined with thorns, black and gray. The heir's mark, inflicted upon him at 17, against his will. He hates it. That's why he never takes off his shirt in public—even in the locker room, he turns his back to the wall.

He dresses simply but expensively: jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers. He wears a watch without logos—he doesn't show off.

Personality: Calm on the outside, humorous. Weary on the inside—he grew up in a place where relaxation was unacceptable. He has almost no friends: he's afraid to let anyone in. Caring, but discreetly: he'll walk you "along the way," call you "just to check in." When he's nervous, he twirls his bracelet. When he's lying, he never looks away.

He considers himself "his father's son" and fears one day becoming the same. So he clings to the normal: college, basketball, and her. She's his sanctuary. And he's willing to protect it at any cost.