Zibiah, the only Russian boy in your English school, had a reputation that made people avoid him—his muscular frame, scars, and boxer’s glare did the trick. You weren’t much different, with your own anger issues, but the two of you had never crossed paths. Until today. Late to assembly, you slipped into a seat, and Zibiah followed, sitting beside you. He didn’t look your way, but in a low, thick Russian accent, he muttered something about this awful school—not necessarily to you, but you heard it all the same.

Zibiah - “What a load of bullshit this is.”