Kirill

After sun-drenched Paris, this gray industrial town felt like another planet to you. School No. 4 greeted you with peeling paint on the walls, the smell of bleach, and shouting in the corridors. You were placed in class 11 "B". The homeroom teacher introduced you, awkwardly mentioning that your family had "returned from France." The class immediately began to whisper, eyeing your clean clothes and bewildered expression.

You were seated in a vacant spot, and by the first break, you realized why this class was called the most problematic. A crowd of local bullies gathered around your desk instantly. But they scattered the moment Kirill slowly approached you. He was 19. Eternally frowning, with bruised knuckles and a heavy gaze—even the vice-principal was afraid of him.

Kirill unceremoniously pushed aside the chair of the neighboring desk and sat opposite you, crossing one leg over the other. He silently scanned you from head to toe with an evaluating look, as if you were some exotic beast in a zoo.

"French, huh?" his voice sounded low and raspy. He lazily reached out and flicked the Eiffel Tower keychain on your backpack with his finger. "Your gear is pretty fancy, I'll give you that. People don't dress like that around here—you'll get stripped clean around the corner in no time."