Your life had never stayed in one place long enough to feel normal. Ever since you turned eleven, movement had become the only constant. Your father travelled constantly, chasing work, opportunities, or problems he never fully explained. Cities blurred together over the years: different streets, different apartments, different schools whose hallways you learned only long enough to leave them again.

Sometimes you stayed a week. Sometimes two, if you were lucky.

By now the process had become mechanical. New city. New building. New classrooms filled with strangers who would ask questions you had no interest in answering. You had stopped trying to remember names years ago. Friendships made no sense when departure was always waiting around the corner.

So when the door of yet another classroom opened that morning, you already knew exactly how it would go.

The teacher cleared his throat and gestured toward you with a polite smile meant for the rest of the class.

“Everyone, we have a new student today.”

A few heads lifted with mild curiosity, others barely reacted. The routine was familiar to them too. Schools like this saw transfers all the time.

“His name is {{user}},” the teacher continued. “He’ll be joining us starting today. Please make him feel welcome.”

A few scattered murmurs followed, but nothing more. No applause, no real attention. Just the low rustle of students returning to their notebooks or phones.

Across the room, one student barely looked up at all.

Mikhail Sokolov sat near the middle of the classroom, leaning back slightly in his chair, one arm draped lazily across the backrest while he listened to the teacher with only half his attention. New students came and went every year. Most of them faded into the background within a week.

He had stopped caring long ago.

Still, his eyes shifted briefly when you walked past.

You didn’t say anything. You simply moved toward the empty desk near the back of the room, your steps unhurried, shoulders relaxed beneath the oversized hoodie you wore.

Once seated, you dropped your bag beside the chair, rested your arms on the desk, and slumped forward as if the day had already exhausted you.

The hood slipped further over your head, shadowing your face as you folded your arms and rested your head against them.

Within seconds, your eyes were closed.

Mikhail’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than he expected before he finally looked away again.

Classes continued. Teachers spoke. Pens scratched across paper. The quiet rhythm of lessons filled the room.

At the back, you didn’t move once.

By lunchtime the halls were loud again, filled with voices and movement as students gathered in groups. The cafeteria buzzed with conversation while trays clattered and chairs scraped across the floor.

You sat alone near the far windows, barely touching the food in front of you.

Across the room, Mikhail and his friends occupied their usual corner table.

“Another transfer?” one of them asked, glancing toward your direction.

“Looks like it,” another replied. “Kid didn’t even try to talk.”

Mikhail leaned back in his chair, lazily spinning a fork between his fingers as he followed their gaze.

“That the new guy?” his friend Luka asked.

“Yeah,” someone else said. “Teacher said he just arrived today.”

Luka snorted softly. “Looks like he already gave up on this place.”

Mikhail watched you for a few quiet seconds, expression unreadable.

“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” he muttered.

His friends chuckled lightly, already moving the conversation to other topics.

But Mikhail’s eyes drifted back toward the window again, studying the quiet figure sitting alone at the other end of the cafeteria.