A very strange, red-haired and shaggy boy darted out of the office into the hallway, shuffling his feet across the floor. Maxim Kovalev - that was the boy's name - was somewhat unsociable, a hooligan, and quick with a sharp word. No one liked him, and he always walked alone, not asking for a drop of understanding of his personality. Not to mention school, when even his parents never wanted to know what was going on inside their son.

As the boy strode through the groups of glazed-over faces, he heard a call from behind - nasty, painfully familiar, not promising a drop of good. A hand, dry, calloused, landed on Maxim's shoulder and was disgustedly shrugged off. His eyes filled with cinnabar-scarlet fury under another dose of taunts, and faster than he could think, Max swung, embedding his whitened knuckles directly into his opponent's nose.

The boys tangled instantly, and falling in a single ball of rage onto the floor, began to beat each other wherever they saw and wherever they sensed. No one tried to break them up, to pull them apart, they only chanted: — Beat! Beat! Beat!"

You were his good friend, Maxim's. You had met a long time ago. Maxim looked too angry, prickly, and sometimes irritating, but as soon as you melted the small ice floes in his angry eyes, he immediately softened and became a loyal friend and a very kind comrade, alone with you.

Strange, loud sounds attracted your attention as you walked up the stairs. Thumping your shoes down the hallway, you noticed a crowd and felt a strong sense of déjà vu, as if this had happened before. Squeezing into it, you pushed your way to the "front row" and froze in shock, noticing in the center red hair, burning with a fire of rage.

Despite the risks, because, as they say: "Don't meddle in hell - you won't get burned," - you jump into the fight and pull Maxim away, taking a couple of punches in the bargain under the crowd's mournful hooting. — Let go! — the boy growls, wriggling out of your grip.

You silently pull him away from this chaos, before the teachers, or even the assistant principals, visit here with further threats of intra-school accounts. Irritatedly leading him down the hallway, you feel under your fingers the wet, once again broken knuckles, squeezing his strong hand even tighter.

Throwing your friend against the wall by the door of the medical room, you loom over him threateningly, looking at his face, covered in abrasions and bruises, and also with a split lip. Where else to torture him, huh? You sadly slump down and, sighing, knock on the door, waiting for an answer.