The schoolyard of Omsk District No. 17 was a battlefield of half-hearted Teacher’s Day celebrations, a chaotic mess of streamers dangling like defeated soldiers and balloons popping under the careless feet of overexcited students. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume, burnt pirozhki from the canteen, and the faint desperation of underpaid teachers trying to wrangle their charges into some semblance of order. Amidst the pandemonium, a figure emerged like a storm cloud in stilettos—Alena Volkov, the infamous mother of the school’s most notorious bully, Dima.
She strutted through the crowd, a fur coat slung carelessly over one shoulder, her phone clutched in a hand tipped with crimson talons that could probably slice through steel. Her platinum blonde hair was teased to gravity-defying heights, and her lips were painted a vicious shade of red that screamed trouble. She wasn’t here for her son’s antics, oh no. Alena had bigger fish to fry, some mysterious “report” she was compiling, though judging by the way she angled her phone for the hundredth selfie of the day, it seemed more like a personal ego trip than anything remotely professional.
“Move, you little brats!” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the din as a gaggle of fifth-graders scattered like startled pigeons. Her icy blue eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the perfect backdrop to her latest social media masterpiece. That’s when she spotted him—Timur, a lanky eighth-grader with a mop of dark hair and a pair of headphones perpetually slung around his neck, trying to slink past unnoticed. His oversized hoodie and scuffed sneakers made him look like he was allergic to attention, but Alena had other plans.
“Hey, you! String bean!” she barked, pointing a manicured finger at him like a general commanding a soldier. Timur froze, his heart sinking as he realized there was no escaping this hurricane in human form. He tugged one headphone off, feigning ignorance. “Yeah, you. Get over here. Now.”
Timur sighed, dragging his feet as he approached. Up close, Alena was even more intimidating—her perfume was a weapon of mass destruction, and the way she towered over him in her heels made him feel like a mouse under a cat’s paw. “What do you want?” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“What do I want?” she echoed, her tone dripping with mockery as she arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “I want you to stop looking like a lost puppy and make yourself useful. I need photos for my… project. You’ve got hands, don’t you? Hold this.” She thrust her phone into his chest with enough force to make him stumble back a step. “Don’t mess this up, shrimp. I don’t have time for incompetence.”
Timur bit back a retort, knowing full well that arguing with Alena Volkov was like arguing with a brick wall—if the brick wall could ruin your life with a single phone call. “Fine,” he grumbled, taking the phone and flipping it to camera mode. “Where do you want to stand?”
Alena smirked, clearly enjoying her little power trip. “Right there, by that hideous banner. It’s tacky as hell, but it’ll do. Makes me look like a queen slumming it with the peasants.” She sauntered over to the garish Teacher’s Day sign—complete with peeling letters and a sad drawing of a chalkboard—and struck a pose that could only be described as discount diva. One hand on her hip, the other gesturing vaguely to the heavens, she pouted at the camera. “Well? What are you waiting for, beanpole? My good side won’t wait all day.”
Timur rolled his eyes but raised the phone, pretending to focus on the shot. “Yeah, yeah, hold still.” He tapped the screen a few times, barely paying attention to the framing. His mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the incessant buzzing of Alena’s phone as notifications popped up one after another. Curiosity got the better of him, and with a quick glance to make sure she was still engrossed in her posing, he swiped down to peek at the messages.
His breath caught in his throat. The texts weren’t from her hairdresser or some gossipy friend—they were from names he didn’t recognize, with content that made his palms sweat. *“Congrats on seizing the business, Alena. Boss didn’t see it coming.”* Another: *“Evidence is locked down. We’ve got him by the throat now.”* And a third, with an attached document labeled *“Transfer Proof”* that looked like it belonged in a crime drama, not on the phone of a schoolyard terror.
“Hurry up, kid! I don’t have all day to babysit your sorry ass!” Alena snapped, adjusting her fur coat for the umpteenth time. “If I wanted blurry garbage, I’d hire a blind man.”
“Almost done,” Timur called back, his voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through him. His fingers moved like lightning, opening her messaging app, email, and even a cloud storage link, forwarding everything incriminating to his own device. He wasn’t just some tech-savvy kid—he was a damn digital ninja when the situation called for it. Within seconds, he’d saved chats, contacts, and files, then logged into her email to cover his bases. A quick delete of the sent items and a wipe of the activity log, and he was golden. Alena didn’t have a clue what kind of goldmine she’d just handed over.
“Smile or whatever,” he muttered, snapping one deliberately blurry photo for show before lowering the phone. “Think that’s good enough.”
Alena snatched the device back with a scoff, barely glancing at the screen. “Good enough? You’ve got the artistic talent of a drunk toddler. Useless kids these days.” She waved a dismissive hand, already scrolling through her gallery as if the world revolved around her next Instagram post. “Get lost, shrimp. I’ve got better things to do than deal with you.”
Timur didn’t need to be told twice. “Whatever,” he mumbled, shoving his headphones back on and turning away. But as he melted into the crowd of screaming students and harried teachers, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. His pocket buzzed with the weight of a dangerous secret—data that could bring Alena Volkov crashing down if he played his cards right.
Behind him, Alena muttered to herself, oblivious to the storm brewing just out of her manicured reach. “Pathetic. Can’t even take a decent photo. Where’s Dima when I need him to yell at someone?” She strutted off toward the school entrance, her heels clicking like a countdown to disaster.
Timur glanced over his shoulder one last time, his smirk widening. “Oh, lady,” he whispered under his breath, “you’ve got no idea what kind of trouble you just flashed.”
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