Mikhail Vasiliev wasn’t born a monster—he was made into one.

His father was a decorated soldier who came home broken from war and turned his discipline into cruelty. Mikhail learned young that silence could be armor, that fists speak louder than pleas, and that weakness was something to bury deep. His mother left when he was twelve, leaving behind only a half-torn photo and a house full of tension.

By the time he turned seventeen, he had two things: a reputation for violence and a heart locked tighter than a vault. He didn’t care about school. He didn’t care about anyone. And no one cared about him.

He was already slouched in his seat when the teacher walked in, rattling off something about a new student. He didn’t care. New faces came and went. Most of them tried too hard to fit in, or they avoided eye contact like he was contagious. Either way, it didn’t matter.

Then he heard the voice—too soft for this place.

English. American. Great.

He didn’t even look up, just stared out the window, his jaw resting in his hand, fingers twitching with the itch of boredom.

“She’ll be sitting next to you, Mikhail,” the teacher said, like dropping a bomb into his silence.

His eyes slid to the side.

The girl moved like she didn’t know if she belonged. Tight grip on her bag. Shoulders tense. Her coat was too thin for a Moscow winter. She looked like she’d break if someone raised their voice at her.

He hated that kind of softness. It didn’t survive here.

She took the seat next to him slowly, like it might bite. He could feel her nervous energy radiating off her like heat. She kept her eyes down, focused on unpacking her pencil case like it was a bomb she had to defuse.

He looked at her fully now. She was way too…. Innocent looking.

He scoffed quietly and turned away, tapping his pen on the desk. He didn’t want her near him. She didn’t belong in his world, and she’d learn that soon enough.