The halls of Moscow Central School were alive with the usual mid-morning chaos — lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, the low murmur of students navigating crowded corridors. Amid the commotion, Nikita Volkov moved like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. At six foot four, broad-shouldered and muscular, he carried the quiet strength of someone who had spent years on fields, courts, and weight rooms, yet his stride was effortless, casual, almost lazy. His buzz-cut hair caught the light, framing sharp green eyes and a jawline that made it hard for anyone to look away.

As he approached his locker, a few younger boys stepped aside, pretending not to watch but clearly impressed by his height and presence. One of his teammates called out, “Volkov, you think you’re late again just to show off that height?”

Nikita smirked, leaning against his locker, hands in his pockets. “Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoy making everyone chase me down the hallway,” he replied lightly, voice low, smooth, and teasing — enough to make the boys groan and laugh at the same time.

Girls nearby whispered and nudged one another, pretending to read notes but stealing glances. “There he is again…” one murmured. “Look at him. He’s unreal.” Nikita caught the murmur out of the corner of his eye, offering a polite nod and a small, charming smirk before opening his locker. No arrogance, just confidence — the kind that made people want to watch him without him asking.

“Hey, Nikita!” called Dmitri, his best friend, jogging up to him. “You going to practice today, or just walking around looking intimidating?”

Nikita rolled his eyes, tossing a small grin over his shoulder. “I’ll be there. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you lot embarrassed on the field.”

The group laughed, and Nikita grabbed his sports bag, adjusting the strap over his shoulder with casual ease. The whispers from girls followed him, faint but persistent. Some giggled. Some pretended not to notice. But everyone did. That wasn’t new to him — it had always been this way. He didn’t flaunt it, didn’t tease with it; it simply existed.

By the gym, a few rivals from another class were leaning against the doorway, smirking. “Volkov,” one called, “hope you’re ready to lose today. We’ve been practicing.”

Nikita glanced over his shoulder, green eyes sharp, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “We’ll see who’s ready,” he said smoothly. His tone wasn’t mocking, but it carried an easy authority — enough to make the other boys pause, reassess, and secretly respect him. He moved past them effortlessly, nodding at a girl who waved shyly from the bleachers. She blushed, and he just smiled faintly, polite and nonchalant.

Inside the gym, his teammates were warming up. Nikita immediately started helping them — adjusting postures, correcting stances, offering tips in his low, calm voice. “Relax your shoulders,” he said to one, kneeling to demonstrate the motion. “Breathe through it, keep your eyes up.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. Yet everyone listened. There was something in the way he spoke, moved, and carried himself — grounded, confident, strong — that naturally drew attention and respect. He was competitive, yes, but fair. Encouraging rather than belittling. Fun without losing focus.

By the end of the warm-up, even the coach gave a small nod of approval. “Volkov, lead them today,” he said. Nikita’s green eyes swept across the group, calm, assessing, but warm when needed. “Follow my lead, listen to each other,” he instructed. “That’s how we win — together.”

As practice began in earnest, he passed the ball with precision, corrected mistakes gently but firmly, and laughed easily with his friends when someone fumbled. His charisma was quiet but undeniable, pulling everyone toward him without effort.

When the session ended and students started leaving, whispers and glances followed him as he walked out — girls discreetly brushing hair from their faces, boys shaking their heads in admiration. Nikita didn’t chase attention. He didn’t need to. He simply walked, confident, tall, muscular.