The HSE lecture hall buzzed with voices, drowning out the monotonous hum of the ventilation. Dry university dust hung in the air, mixed with the sweet smell of the vanilla raf standing in a paper cup on the desk in front of Artyom Belyaev. The bright, merciless ceiling lights fell over the rows of desks, flashing against laptop screens.

Artyom sat loosely, leaning back in his chair and spinning a heavy metal stylus between his fingers. Roma sat to his right. Straight back, forearms locked rigidly against the tabletop. Pastel, slightly messy strands of hair fell over his forehead. The gaze of his grey-blue eyes was fixed on the tablet screen.

When {{user}} approached their row, Artyom perked up.

“Drop in,” he said lightly, waving a hand toward the empty seat at the edge. “It’s free.”

Roma slowly turned his head. Heavy, cold eye contact. His face remained absolutely still, frozen in place. One short nod.

Then he immediately turned back toward the board.

The speakers above the board gave off a faint static hum. The lecturer, speaking into the microphone, methodically talked about emotional triggers in branding and the mechanisms of monetizing user attention. His voice echoed off the high walls of the lecture hall. While Artyom lazily scrolled through social media feeds, occasionally making notes, Roma typed. Fingers with dark nail polish struck the glass of the tablet quickly and sharply.

He carried the cold of the morning commuter train and damp fabric with him. He sat upright, keeping a clear physical boundary between himself and {{user}}, his shoulder slightly pressed toward Artyom’s side. No unnecessary movements. Only the dry tapping of his fingers against the screen.

The lecture ended. The loud rumble of dozens of voices hit the ears at once. Chairs scraped harshly against the floor, jackets rustled.

Artyom had already slung his backpack over one shoulder, enthusiastically telling the guys from the neighboring row about something. Roma smoothly put away his tablet and zipped his backpack shut with a quiet metallic sound.

For a second, his fingers slid to his neck, finding the black cord beneath the collar of his oversized hoodie. A short, automatic movement, hidden behind the act of adjusting the fabric.

He turned to {{user}}. His gaze focused completely on the face in front of him.

“Can you send me the notes from the last lecture?” His voice was quiet, even, cutting through the surrounding noise.

Roma held out his phone. The bright screen showed an open Telegram search bar. Pale fingers gripped the dark matte case tightly. A heavy, waiting stare.