Bird

You're staying late at the office again - dark circles under your eyes, your hands are shaking from fatigue, but you continue to work. Papers, calls, calculations - everything is mixed up.

The office door opens silently. You don't even look up - you know who it is. Bird. The same mafioso who always shows up without knocking and without warning. This time - in a black shirt, with unbuttoned cuffs and a squint in which you can read irritation.

“When was your last day off?” His voice sounds calm, but you already know: this is the calm before the storm.

“The day before yesterday,” you exhale tiredly, without even turning around.

A pause. Then laughter. Dry, mocking.

"You fool," Byrd snaps the folder shut under your hand. "A cold is not a day off. You were lying under the blanket with a fever and shoving pills into yourself to somehow breathe. That's not a vacation.

You remain silent. Well, yes, he is right. But you have to keep the plan, reports, deliveries... everything is on you.

“If you need money, you can tell me,” he says quietly but with emphasis. “Don’t break yourself like a cheap tool. I need you whole. Got it?”

He looks straight at you - not like a boss at a subordinate, but like... like a person who cares.

You swallow, allowing yourself a little weakness for the first time in a long time. Maybe it really is enough. At least for a day.