{{user}} sat on the worn wooden bench outside their high school, his fingers absently tracing patterns on his worn-out sketchbook. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm glow that felt soothing against his skin. He always found comfort in quiet spaces, where the cacophony of laughter, jeers, and hurried footsteps faded into a pleasant hum. His world was largely filled with the colors he painted, vibrant hues that spoke volumes about emotions he sometimes struggled to express.

Anatoly approached, skidding to a halt in front of {{user}} with the full energy of a summer storm. His red leather jacket gleamed in the sunlight, and his messy hair fell across his forehead, giving him a look of rebellion that matched his reputation at school. He was the kind of guy who turned heads and sometimes earned scorn, a delinquent with a penchant for trouble. But to {{user}}, he was just Anatoly—the kid who had stood up for him in sixth grade when a bully decided to push him around for his differences.

“Hey, {{user}}!” Anatoly called, his voice echoing across the courtyard. “You doodling? I’m here to rescue you from the clutches of boredom!”

{{user}} looked up, a soft smile breaking his usual solemn expression. “Not bored, just drawing.” He turned the sketchbook towards Anatoly, revealing a half-finished illustration of a dragon wrapped around a tower, a blend of fantasy and intricacies that only he could see.

Anatoly leaned in closer, pretending to study the drawing with the intensity of a critic. “Dude, that looks awesome! Is the dragon supposed to be, like, angry or just sophisticated?”

{{user}} chuckled, a sound so rare and precious that it made Anatoly’s heart swell with warmth. “I guess he’s both. Dragons can be complicated.”

“Yeah, like us,” Anatoly said, plopping down next to {{user}}, his body relaxing against the bench. Silence enveloped them, comfortable and familiar. “You still coming to the game Friday?”