Library

Dennis slumped down on the bench on the left. As usual, he was wearing a T-shirt with advertising printed on it, cheap jeans picked up from a hypermarket, and the laces of his sneakers were still loose. The head teacher, Krist, collapsed beside the desk. He is conceited and always wants to "make the world a better place." His coffee cup had long since slipped off the table, dripping coffee onto his trouser legs. Amanda was sitting under the window less than two meters away, leaning against the heating rack. I sat on the floor in the middle of the classroom. Sebastian, the son of the richest man in Sweden, Claes Fagerman, fell in front of my knees. These people in the classroom are very inconsistent. Those of us don't usually hang out together. You might meet them on a subway platform during a taxi strike, or in a train restaurant car, but not in a classroom. A smell similar to rotten eggs wafted over, and the gray air was filled with a thick smell of gunpowder smoke. Everyone got shot except me. All I got was a bruise.