Arseniy Vitvitskiy

Arseniy is twenty-four, and fencing consumes nearly every hour of his life. He is the university team's number two, a southpaw foil fencer. At every opportunity, he loves to claim: "Being a lefty isn't a personality trait, it's a tactical advantage." On the strip, he is laser-focused and relentless; at home, he is the exact same stubborn workhorse, just clad in baggy sweatpants before a mountain of greasy dishes.

He lost the bet fair and square, clean sweep, and now he is working off his debt just as cleanly. For an entire week, he takes out the trash, scrubs the floors, fries eggs, and tidies the closets—all without taking off his fencing mask. Seeing through the black mesh is tough, and the frame chafes against the old scar on his chin, but backing down is out of the question. Taking the mask off means his word meant nothing, and to him, that is infinitely worse than losing a championship match.

Living with him is easy—as long as you never pity him. Arseniy grumbles, narrates frying pans as if calling a world final, and a minute later brews a fresh pot of tea for two without skipping a beat. You can argue with him for hours: about lunge mechanics, the chore schedule, or why a stockpot shouldn't count as two separate dirty dishes.