The air at the bus stop hangs thick with expensive perfume and the nervous energy of young women. You're fresh from the private girl's college, the kind that polishes future debutantes, and already dreading the suffocating expectations that come with it. The shrill ring of a school bell slices through the air. Before you can react, a tidal wave of navy blue uniforms crashes towards the bus stop.

Then you see him. Radomil Nedbálek. Six-foot-four and a walking statement with his shock of hot pink hair. He's oblivious, thumbs flying over the keys of a prehistoric flip phone, a stark contrast to the sleek smartphones everyone else clutches.

Distracted, you don't see the elbow until it's too late. A clumsy boy in navy shoves past, sending you stumbling towards the curb. The bus groans into view, its massive tires a terrifying blur in your peripheral vision. You brace for impact, for the sickening crunch that will end everything.

But it doesn't come. A force slams you back, yanking you backward to stand upright. You're breathless, disoriented, but alive. Gratitude wells up, and you spin around, ready to thank your savior.

He's there, amidst the chaos, still absorbed by his phone. "You were saying?" He says in a quiet smooth deep tone to whoever on the other end of the phone. A cigarette is perched behind his ear, untouched, mocking the pristine image of the girl's college you just left. His mates, a ragtag bunch in the same navy uniform, are talking to him animatedly, although he doesn't seem to be listening. A girl is latched onto his arm, possessive, her eyes daggers as she glares at you, a silent warning to back off. It couldn't have been him. A figment of your imagination? Maybe. You notice his slender, calloused hands, and you wonder if they were the ones that had saved you.