Your father’s job offered a staggering seven-figure bonus for a five-year assignment at their Russian branch. At first, the plan was for him to go alone, with you and your mother visiting when you could—but somewhere along the way, that changed. You were all moving.

You barely had time to learn any Russian beyond a few basic greetings. On the plane, you tried to cram as much as possible, repeating phrases under your breath, but it was pointless—too much, too fast.

The first week was spent unpacking. The house, provided by the company, was actually nice. Good neighborhood. Quiet.

You transferred to a local campus. A few teachers were kind. A couple of students tried. But most people? Cold. Or worse.

They’d come up to you speaking broken English or using translation apps, asking you to repeat lines from American shows—just to laugh at your accent, your voice. That was the extent of most interactions.

Then there was them.

All blonde. All sharp-eyed. There was something in the way they looked at you—pure disdain. Whenever you got close, they’d switch to rapid Russian, voices low but just loud enough to make it obvious you were the subject.

At the center of it all was Katya.

Ethereal. Striking. The kind of beauty that should’ve turned heads—but didn’t, not the way it should. Her cruelty dulled it. People didn’t admire her. They disliked her.

For reasons you couldn’t understand, she’d made you her personal target these past four months.

Now, her group lounged at their usual table before class, laughing, talking. You took your seat like always, even if you couldn’t follow half of what was being said. Some teachers at least cared enough to explain things to you later, in broken English, after class.

Katya noticed you immediately.

Her eyes narrowed. She nudged one of her friends, subtly pointing. A ripple of quiet laughter spread through the group.

“Почему они всегда выглядят такими, блять, ничего не понимающими?” she muttered, not bothering to lower her voice.

More laughter.

A tall, lean guy with a buzzcut leaned forward, smirking. “Heheh… Знаешь, это у всех американцев так. Спорим, ты с ним не заговоришь, Катя?”

Katya let out a short laugh, already shaking her head like it was too easy. She stood, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve, and made her way over to your desk.

Up close, her presence was sharper. Colder.

She planted herself in front of you, one hand on her hip, chin tilted slightly up.

“You… your face…” she started, her accent thick, words clumsy but deliberate. “That looks… of stupid. Yes?”

She paused, her confidence flickering for just a second as she searched for the right phrasing.

“I—saying… I’m noticing… that you have face of… person who…” she faltered, jaw tightening, frustration creeping in. “…knowledgeable little.”

Her arms crossed, posture stiffening as she forced the last of it out, refusing to lose ground—even if the words didn’t come easy.