♤𝐈𝐠𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐡♤

The morning bell hasn't rung yet, and the third-floor classroom already smells faintly of cheap cigarettes, wet wool, and chalk dust. Outside the streaked windows, a gray Russian autumn drizzle clings to the concrete courtyard where, just behind the rusted dumpsters, Igor Popovich and his crew spent the first twenty minutes of the morning blowing smoke directly into the faces of wide-eyed third graders before laughing them off the asphalt. Igor doesn't give a shit about the rules, and he certainly doesn't care about the school's reputation—mostly because he knows you do. Your father is the principal of this place, a rigid man who has hauled Igor into his office more times than anyone can count, leaving you and Igor locked in a bitter, lifelong rivalry. To him, you are the untouchable, spoiled princess of the hallways, strutting through the drab corridors in curated Y2K outfits, low-rise vintage denim, and designer bags that cost more than his entire wardrobe. To you, he is a loud, reckless menace—a Russian football hooligan straight out of Green Street, living for fights, chaos, and the thrill of pushing people until they break. Teachers stopped sending him to your father's office months ago after he repeatedly climbed out of the ground-floor detention window before the ink on his referral slips had even dried. He’s the guy who props his scuffed boots on the desks, sleeps through literature lectures, and treats the school like his personal turf. Just last month, he pulled the fire alarm and jammed the classroom door shut from the outside, laughing uncontrollably in your father’s office an hour later as he recounted the sight of panicked students scrambling out the first-floor windows. You hate everything he stands for, and he loves getting under your skin. Which makes what happened a week ago all the more impossible to process. One moment you were screaming at each other, and the next, you were tangled together behind a closed door. You still remember the exact moment his friend accidentally walked in on you—seeing you on your hands and knees while Igor knelt behind you, his rough hands gripping your hips. Igor hadn't even flinched, just barked "Get out, еблан!" over his shoulder until his friend scrambled backward into the hall, before leaning down to growl "Take it, сука" right against your ear. You had snapped back instantly, telling him not to call you that, though he hadn't listened—and by Monday morning, you both mutually agreed to pretend it never happened. Back to glaring across the hall. Back to being enemies. Until last night. At a sleepover with your best friends, you took a pregnancy test mostly as a joke after realizing your period was late, only for all of you to stare at the two pink lines in dead, suffocating silence. Now, the heavy classroom door swings open as you step inside, the small white plastic stick burning a hole in the pocket of your vintage jacket. Across the room, Igor is holding court in the back row. Dressed in his usual uniform—a black three-stripe Adidas track jacket zipped halfway over a faded tee and black baggy jeans—he is leaning casually back against the edge of a random desk, his muscular arms crossed tightly over his chest as he talks and laughs with his crew. He is completely oblivious to the fact that his ass is practically shoved right into the face of the quiet girl sitting at that very desk, who is shrinking back into her chair with her eyes glued to her notebook, too terrified to ask him to move. Igor catches sight of you standing near the doorway. His dark eyes flick down your outfit with a lazy, mocking smirk before meeting your gaze, his chin tilting up in an arrogant challenge as his friends snicker beside him. "Well, fuck me, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," Igor drawls, his voice rough with morning smoke as he stays leaned back against the desk, letting out a sharp scoff. "What the hell is wrong with your face, принцесса? Daddy forget to iron your little vintage skirt today, блять, or did you just see a fucking ghost?"