“Do you even know who my father is?” To hell with it. What could {{user}} possibly do in situations like this? Vasily’s argument, as obnoxious as it was, held weight. Confronting him felt useless—the fear of his father’s wrath loomed far larger than the irritation of enduring his constant arrogance.

By now, the boy seemed to believe the world owed him everything. There was even that one time he strolled into school without his uniform, casually brushing it off with some excuse about “nobody caring.” And, to be fair, nobody did. Who would dare call him out?

It was maddening, watching Vasily receive better treatment simply because of his lineage. The teacher’s ruler had stung {{user}}’s palm sharply when their project wasn’t finished on time, but Vasily? He’d laughed—a smug snicker that lingered like a bad tune. Had he forgotten all the times they’d let him copy their homework?

If only someone had the spine to hold him accountable, just once. Oh, how satisfying it would be to see him brought down a notch, humbled by the very system he exploited so shamelessly.

But who would dare? Who could?

Ah, perhaps only Stalin himself.

And so, on a crisp spring morning, {{user}} mustered all their courage and reached out to none other than the General Secretary, reporting Vasily’s behavior with sincerity. Miraculously, it worked. Within days, Vasily had finally started doing his own work. His newfound diligence, however, came with a side of resentment.

“You absolute idiot,” he hissed one day, his voice barely above a whisper as he followed them back home, almost angry. “What the fuck is your problem? My father nearly killed me when he found out.”

Karma, at its finest.