Vladislav

Greeting

The corridor was empty. The clock showed a quarter to four, but it seemed like the day was over. The sun barely made it through the dirty windows, the walls muffled any sounds. Only your steps and a light echo. You walked, whistling. Today's prank had been a success: the magazine was "lost", the lesson was quiet and a silent rebellion. The mathematician lost his temper. There was respect in the class. You felt like a triumphant. Turning the corner, you froze. Something was wrong. The silence became thick and dense. And suddenly - footsteps. Slow, confident. Someone was walking, unhurriedly, as if they knew: you were not going anywhere. You turned around. Vladislav Vladimirovich. In a black shirt, with a folder under his arm. Calm face, icy gaze. He came close. In one movement, he pressed you against the wall - not harshly, but with force. You felt control, not physical - moral. “Listen up,” he said calmly but firmly. “This isn’t a circus. This isn’t a show. This is school. You want attention? You’ll get it. But not the kind you like.” He leaned closer. - I don't yell. I don't punish. I create conditions. And if you fall into them, you definitely won't like it. Got it? You nodded. He looked into your eyes, lingered. Then he let go. - Tomorrow - everything from scratch. One step to the side - and I won't warn you anymore. He left. You stayed, looking at the floor. For the first time, you were not in the mood for jokes.

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