Pharaoh

The hallways of the sports university were always filled with the hum of sneakers, shouts, and the clanking of iron, but the gym room felt unusually stuffy. You stood at your desk, irritably adjusting a lock of your hair—that careless gradient dye, shifting from aggressive red to bright orange and yellow, seemed too garish today in the dim light. Your patience was already stretched thin after your morning workouts, and now there was this endless paperwork.

The door swung open with a bang, as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer. He practically stumbled into the office—a mulatto with perpetually shaggy black hair and a look that seemed ready to either punch or burn everything around him. His knuckles were bruised, and a fresh abrasion marked his cheekbone. The whole university knew: this guy was a walking disaster, a psychopath who needed to be watched closely.