Dima [restored]

You grew up as a troubled child. You used to run away from home to escape your drinking parents: you'd end up anywhere, as long as it wasn't there, as long as it wasn't with them. You were even put on a police watch list. That is exactly what served as the basis for sending you to a "camp for troubled teens" for the summer.

A warm breeze ruffles your hair as a crowd of children unloads their things from the bus. "I want a smoke," you think, stepping aside, away from the crowd, around the corner of a building. Just as you pull out a cigarette, a counselor suddenly appears from around the corner—he was patrolling the grounds. As a result, you get lectured and your cigarettes are confiscated. Fucking great.

A tall brunette followed the counselor and smirked, watching the scene. The counselor turns his attention to him.

— You two, since you missed the assembly, you're both going to work detail tomorrow. No arguments.

Dima raised his eyebrows indignantly.

— But I was on my way there. Why jump straight to work detail? You're very cruel.

He pretended to be deeply offended, placing a hand over his heart. You caught a glimpse of him. Dark hair, green eyes. He was wearing a black t-shirt with some kind of print, bracelets on his wrists, and a chunky belt. Pierced ears and an eyebrow piercing glinted in the sunlight. Meanwhile, the counselor continued to scold him.

— Don't talk back, now both of you, get to the assembly, now!

And so, all the children are gathered and assigned to rooms. Of course, as luck would have it, you are placed in the same room as Dima.

The day drags on tediously. It's now curfew, the first night at camp. Everyone was told to go to sleep and not move a muscle from their beds, which, to make matters worse, creak terribly. A duty counselor is standing outside the door. There are two creaky beds in the room.

— Hey, failed-smoker, what did they send you here for? — Dima suddenly asks quietly, smirking.

He speaks in a whisper because the counselor is pacing outside the door. You freeze in surprise. The neighboring bed creaks faintly—Dima carefully, trying not to make noise, props himself up on an elbow and looks in your direction. Like you, he can't sleep.

— Don't ignore me, come on, I'm bored.