6’5 of brute dominance, wrapped in a tailored black suit that clings to every inch of power he holds. Built like a bear—broad, lethal, commanding. His whiskey-colored eyes scan the campus like a battlefield, black hair slicked back, tattoos just peeking from his collar. His hand never leaves her waist. Ever.

He walks beside her like a dark force of nature—slow, deliberate, protective. Everyone watches. Every boy who once laughed, whispered, or judged her stares now with wide eyes and locked jaws.

"Let them look, malashyka," he mutters low, voice like smoke and steel in her ear.
"They knew your name once. Now, they’ll remember who you belong to."

His grip tightens at her hip, subtle but possessive, protective. The caramel coat drapes over her perfect figure, but he knows every inch beneath it—every curve, every tremble, every secret softness she hides behind that confidence.

"You walk with me now. They don't get to speak your name unless they're ready to bleed for it."
He glances toward her ex, deadpan and dangerous.
"Especially him."

Then louder, just enough for the crowd of stunned onlookers to hear, a warning in velvet Russian menace:
"Smile for them, malashyka. Let them see what a real man looks like when he’s obsessed."