The flickering light of a single desk lamp cast jagged shadows across Ruslan Tushentsov’s cluttered bedroom. Textbooks lay sprawled open like wounded soldiers on a battlefield, their pages dog-eared and scribbled with frantic notes in barely legible handwriting. Empty energy drink cans formed a precarious tower on the edge of his desk, threatening to topple with the slightest nudge. The ancient computer in the corner hummed like an overworked beast, its screen displaying a jumble of code that might as well have been ancient hieroglyphs to Ruslan’s frazzled brain.
He slumped back in his creaky chair, rubbing his temples as if he could physically massage the answers to his upcoming OGE in informatics into his skull. “I’m doomed,” he muttered to himself, his voice a mix of exhaustion and despair. “If I don’t pass this, I’m stuck debugging vending machines for the rest of my life.”
His phone buzzed on the desk, a momentary distraction from the chaos. He ignored it at first, assuming it was just another meme from his equally stressed-out classmates. But when it buzzed a second time, then a third, he groaned and snatched it up, squinting at the screen through his smudged glasses.
It was a message from Goga. Or, as everyone at school knew her, Beybi Melo—the untouchable queen bee who strutted through the hallways like she owned the place. With her razor-sharp wit and a GPA that seemed to defy the laws of physics, Goga was the kind of girl who could make even the strictest teachers stammer. Ruslan had no idea why she’d even bothered to respond to the desperate plea for help he’d sent her twenty minutes ago in a moment of sheer panic.
**Goga:** So, Tushentsov, you think I’m your personal tutor now? What’s in it for me, nerd boy?
Ruslan blinked at the screen, his tired brain struggling to process her words. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitation gripping him. He’d expected a flat-out rejection, not... whatever this was. Swallowing hard, he typed out a reply, trying to sound less pathetic than he felt.
**Ruslan:** Hey, Goga, I’m drowning here. I just need a peek at your informatics notes. I’ll owe you big time. Name your price.
He hit send before he could overthink it, then immediately regretted it. “Name your price?” he muttered under his breath. “What am I, negotiating a hit job?”
The response came almost instantly, and Ruslan could practically hear Goga’s smirk through the text.
**Goga:** Oh, sweetie, you couldn’t afford my price even if you sold that rusty heap you call a computer. But I’m feeling generous tonight. My notes are gold—straight-A, color-coded, annotated perfection. You want ‘em, you gotta give me something... personal.
Ruslan’s stomach did a flip. Personal? What did that even mean? His mind raced through a dozen scenarios, each more mortifying than the last. Did she want his lunch money? His dignity? His... oh god, no, not that. He adjusted his glasses nervously, his fingers trembling as he typed.
**Ruslan:** Uh, personal how? Like, my last slice of pizza personal, or...?
Her reply was swift, dripping with mischief.
**Goga:** Don’t play coy, Tushentsov. I’m not after your sad cafeteria leftovers. I want something juicier. A little secret, maybe? Or a favor only *you* can provide. I’ll let you stew on that for a bit. Think hard, brainiac.
Ruslan’s face flushed a deep crimson, the heat creeping up his neck as he reread her words. He was way out of his depth here. Goga wasn’t just the smartest girl in school; she was a force of nature, a hurricane in human form who could bend anyone to her will with a single arched eyebrow. And now, somehow, he’d caught her attention. Whether that was a blessing or a curse, he wasn’t sure.
He paced the small room, nearly tripping over a stray textbook as he muttered to himself. “A favor? What kind of favor? I can barely code a calculator app without it crashing, let alone do something ‘juicy.’” He stopped, catching his reflection in the smudged mirror on the wall. His lanky frame, messy hair, and perpetually anxious expression stared back at him. “She’s probably just messing with me. Right?”
His phone buzzed again, and he dove for it like it was a lifeline—or a grenade.
**Goga:** Tick-tock, Ruslan. I’m not a patient woman. You want my notes, you better come up with something worth my time. Or are you too scared to play with the big dogs?
Ruslan groaned, running a hand through his hair until it stuck up in even wilder tufts. He could feel the weight of her words pressing down on him, her confidence radiating through the screen. She wasn’t just teasing; she was testing him, daring him to step out of his awkward, nerdy shell. And damn it, he needed those notes. Without them, he’d flunk the OGE and kiss any chance of a decent future goodbye.
**Ruslan:** Fine, Goga. I’m not scared. Just... give me a hint. What kind of favor are we talking about here? I’m not exactly James Bond, you know.
Her response came with a winking emoji that made his heart stutter.
**Goga:** Oh, I know exactly what you are, Ruslan. A shy little genius with more potential than you realize. Here’s the deal: you get my notes, but in return, you’re mine for one day. My personal... assistant. You do what I say, when I say it. No questions asked. Deal?
Ruslan’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. Her assistant? That could mean anything. Fetching her coffee, carrying her books, or... something far more dangerous. His mind spun with possibilities, each more scandalous than the last. But beneath the panic, there was a flicker of something else—intrigue. Goga wasn’t just offering him a lifeline; she was dragging him into her world, whether he liked it or not.
He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. Then, with a shaky exhale, he typed.
**Ruslan:** One day. That’s it. And I get the notes upfront. Deal.
Her reply was almost instantaneous, laced with a triumph that made his skin tingle.
**Goga:** Smart boy. Notes are yours tomorrow morning, first period. Meet me by my locker. And Ruslan? Don’t even think about backing out. I always get what I want.
Ruslan dropped his phone onto the desk, his heart pounding like he’d just run a marathon. He’d done it. He’d made a deal with Beybi Melo herself. But as he stared at the glowing screen, her last words echoing in his mind, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just signed away more than a day of his time. Goga wasn’t just a queen bee; she was a predator, and he was her prey.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered to the empty room, a mix of dread and anticipation settling in his chest. “What the hell did I just get myself into?”
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