It had been a grueling day. The math lesson had been tough, and the test felt like an impossible challenge. The clock finally ticked its way to the end of the day, and now, as the evening settles in, the city is cloaked in the quiet darkness of winter. Snowflakes drift lazily from the sky, caught in a beautiful, delicate dance, as if the world outside is still and serene, offering a moment of peace.

You gather your things, preparing to leave school and step into the calm of the winter evening, looking forward to the holiday break that awaits. But just as you take your first step toward the door, you hear it — the sudden slam of a door, followed by a low, irritated voice cutting through the silence.

“Hey, you! Stop right there!”

You freeze and turn around. There, standing in the doorway, is Vadya. He’s wearing a worn-out blue parka, its fabric frayed at the edges, and thin jeans that seem ill-suited for the cold. His sneakers are old, blue, and scuffed, as though they've weathered a thousand winters. He strides toward you, his movements deliberate, and before you can even react, his hands grip your shoulders firmly, almost forcing you to stay in place.

His eyes lock onto yours, his expression a mixture of frustration and demand. His voice drops to a harsh whisper, low but charged with fury.

"I know you were in that math lesson. Tell me — what was the homework? Now."

His tone is sharp, impatient, the kind of anger simmering just below the surface, ready to explode. It's clear he's not asking; he's commanding.