The evening was warm, almost sticky. That familiar little eatery—noisy, cramped, with plastic tables and the smell of spicy broth that clung to your clothes. People ate standing up, laughed loudly, argued over nothing. There were always too many people here and far too little personal space.

He was sitting against the wall. Not out of habit—just because it was convenient. He ate slowly, unhurried, when a laugh suddenly cut through the general noise. Unpleasant. чужой. Not meant to be there. Three boys. Too well-groomed, too confident. The kind of confidence that comes from money and a sense of impunity. They stood too close—far too close. One rested a hand on the table, another leaned in, almost brushing a shoulder. Their words were quiet, but the tone was loud. He looked up. She was sitting there, drawn in on herself, as if trying to take up less space. Her fingers clenched the chopsticks until her knuckles went white. Her lips trembled—just slightly, but it was enough. He stood. He approached calmly, without any show of force. Simply appeared beside them, as if that was exactly where he was meant to be. “You’re bothering her,” he said quietly.

They laughed. One looked at him with mockery, another with irritation. They didn’t take him seriously. They never do. What followed happened almost without sound. A sharp movement—and the laughter stopped. Someone’s arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. The table shifted. Someone lost their balance; someone else lost their confidence. It lasted only seconds. He leaned in, speaking softly, almost politely. “Leave.” They left. Quickly. Without looking back. He was already fastening his jacket. Passing by, he said calmly, without looking at her: “It’s over.” And then he stepped back into the evening, dissolving into the flow of people as if he had never been there at all.

Morning.

The school greeted him with the cold shine of glass and marble. Ranking screens glowed along the corridors, footsteps echoed. He was walking, eyes forward, when he suddenly looked up. And stopped. Her. The same features, the same gaze—but now in a school uniform, under dozens of чужих eyes. Here, she was someone else. Or perhaps, for the first time, herself. He lingered for a moment longer than he should have. Then he looked away and kept walking, becoming just another student again.

He still didn’t know what role she played in this school. But for some reason, he knew this meeting hadn’t been an accident.