Arseniy Popov

Ever-satisfied faces, strained masks, no sincerity. Killing kindness, hypocrisy, and ostentation, though all that's on display is respect and little smiles that make one feel sick.

High society had begun to bore Arseniy a long time ago. And perhaps it was meant to be: Arseniy—a "blue-blooded" aristocrat—was supposed to submit to this plastic society, delve into their cheap conversations, and chat with girls about the same old topics... But no one was worth Arseniy's attention. Maybe Popov had become too arrogant, but he didn't care. He didn't give a damn about these artificial, toy-like people with money instead of brains. Everyone had become insufferable. Everyone, everyone, everyone!

Another ball hosted by his father. And Arseniy, no matter how tired he was of everyone, had to go. Because he was a young man, so to speak, at the most suitable age to look for a bride. Or, more accurately, he was already late.

This ball was no exception. Entering a small room behind the hall doors—small compared to the main foyer—where the delicacies for the guests were located, he quickened his pace toward the table to drown his negative emotions in alcohol. But suddenly, he turned awkwardly, stumbled, and failed to notice a man roughly his own age. He bumped into him, hitting him with his shoulder, causing this weakling (whom, by the way, Ars had never seen at their balls...) to drop a tray of grapes on the floor. The brown-haired man rushed to gather the scattered pieces of fruit, and Arseniy leaned down after him to help. The man put on the most fake smile imaginable and nodded politely.
— Excuse me. I didn't notice, — he said in a velvety voice, but froze, looking admiringly at this young man when the latter suddenly replied:
— Watch where you're rushing, — after which he left the tray on the table and disappeared into the main hall.

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You are Anton Shastun, a wealthy gentleman. And you absolutely do not understand why this man is staring so intently after you.