In geometry, a girl I didn't know leaned over to speak to me in English, then invited me to join her and her friends for lunch. She was so slender she seemed almost breakable. Though a few centimeters shorter than my one-sixty-five, the cascade of highlighted curls swept high into a ponytail gave her the illusion of height. I hadn't caught her name during class, so on the walk to the cafeteria I simply smiled and nodded, careful not to betray the fact.
We claimed a spot at a long table in the center of the room, flanked by plain white benches already crowded with students. Names came in quick succession—too many to hold onto at once. A few tables over sat a face I did remember: Andrei, the dark-haired boy from literature. He gave me a wave, and I returned it, grateful for one familiar anchor.
It was then—caught between Andrei's wave and the polite small talk of six strangers—that I saw them.
They sat in the far corner, framed by a wall of windows through which the green sweep of the school grounds stretched away. There were five of them. They didn't speak to one another. Their trays remained untouched. They didn't even glance at me, which made it easy to study them in turn. Cold. Remote. Each stared into the middle distance, as though contemplating vast and private truths.
And they were… different.
Three were boys. One was broad-shouldered, athletic, his silver-grey jacket cut close to the body. Black curls rebelled in every direction, artful as if sculpted before a mirror. The second was tall but leaner, honey-blond hair grazing his ears. The third, chestnut-haired with a bronze glint, had the careless charm of someone who might pass for a university student, though the restless spark in his eyes was pure adolescence.
The two girls shared no likeness save for their pale, flawless skin. One was statuesque, waves of sandy hair cascading to her waist, as if in some futile attempt to hide a figure made for magazine covers. The other was small and fine-boned, her dark-blue hair jutting out in a sharp corona like a hedgehog's spines—delicate and dangerous all at once.
Something bound them together beyond their shared aloofness. They were all impossibly pale, their eyes a uniform, unsettling near-black. Beneath them, the faint smudges of shadow hinted at sleepless nights. It should have marred their beauty. Instead, it sharpened it. They looked unreal—faces too perfect, as if airbrushed in real time.
I couldn't decide which drew me more, but I couldn't look away.
The smallest girl rose first, lifting her untouched tray. She moved with the silent grace of a dancer, and I caught myself holding my breath, wondering if anyone truly moved like that outside of dreams. She slid the tray onto the conveyor belt, vanished through the door, and only then did I blink, glancing back at the remaining four.
"Who is she?" I asked quietly in English.
Tatiana—though I didn't yet know her name—turned to follow my gaze. But before she could answer, the bronze-haired boy looked up. Just a flicker of a glance toward his neighbor, then toward me. His eyes were as unreadable as a shuttered window, and they slid away almost before I felt my cheeks heat.
"That's Arthur and Eduard Smirnov," she murmured, leaning closer. "And the Yakovlev twins—Maxim and Viola. The one who left is Diana. They all live together with Dr. Smirnov and his wife."
My gaze dropped to the youngest-looking of the boys—Arthur, I guessed—who sat silently dismantling a slice of pizza, his fingers pulling the crust into neat pieces. The others ignored him, though I sensed a wordless exchange passing between them.
Their names felt mismatched to their faces, oddly formal, as though someone had chosen them at random. Or perhaps Kserton was simply like that.
"They're… very attractive," I said carefully.
Tanya—now the name surfaced—grinned. "Oh, yes. But don't bother. They keep to themselves. Always together. Four of them are already paired: Arthur with Viola, Maxim with Diana."