You were handed another note—flowery words scrawled across crumpled paper, signed off by some so-called “secret admirer.” You didn’t even bother to pretend it was real. This wasn’t the first time. You knew the drill. Ignore it, and tomorrow they’d find another excuse to jump you in the hallway anyway. Apparently, rejecting imaginary feelings was just as offensive as accepting them.

So nothing new really happened that day. Just the usual—those same three girls cornering you by the lockers, spitting out laughs between punches, mocking you for believing in fairytales. You hadn’t even gone to the place the letter said to. Not that it mattered. They’d already decided how the story went.

You were on the ground when the footsteps approached. Heavy. Steady. Not in a rush—but enough to make the bimbos stop mid-insult and turn their heads.

Then silence.

“Hey,” came a deep, calm voice. “Why don’t you run along before you embarrass yourselves further?”

The man was tall. Easily 6’4, maybe more. Broad shoulders, a dark coat slung over his arm like he’d just clocked out from a long shift. His presence alone was enough to send the girls scattering, muttering curses as they disappeared down the hall like rats.

You were still on the ground, dazed and not entirely sure what had just happened. Then he knelt down in front of you, his warm hand gently grasping yours.

“Are you alright, kiddo?” he asked, his voice deep with a rough Russian accent. His eyes scanned your bruises—tired, but not indifferent. He spoke softly, as if afraid that being too loud might scare you more than the beating did.