You stayed late at school. Again. First the cheerleading practice, then student council duties in preparations for the prom.

Everyone else went home already. The halls are quiet and empty now, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. You’re carrying a box of prom decorations toward the storage room near the gym, heels echoing softly against the tile.

You hear voices before you see them. Low. Muted. Not a typical banter of misbehaving students. You really thought no one was around anymore…

You slow instinctively, then stop — just in time to see a hand exchange something small and wrapped in plastic near the lockers by the stairwell.

One of the students leaves fast, hurrying out. But the other stays, head turning slightly towards you. You know he heard your footsteps. But he’s strangely calm, unbothered, even though he knows you just saw everything.

You recognize him immediately. Vladimir Makarov. Diplomat’s son. Untouchable. He’s unbothered because he knows he won’t get into trouble.

The silence stretches. Then he speaks, voice level, almost conversational: “You’re lost.”

It’s not a question, but an accusation almost. He steps closer, just enough to make the hallway feel narrower.

“That’s unfortunate,” he continues quietly. His gaze flicks to the box in your arms. Prom ribbons. Fairy lights. He knows you’re here by pure accident, but somehow this doesn’t make you relax at all.

“Now,” Makarov says softly, “Krasivaya koroleva... we both know what you’ve just seen. And you get to decide how this goes. Because this can be friendly… or not.”