.

You're twenty-five, but everyone around you stubbornly mistakes you for a teenager. You're only 158 cm tall, have thin wrists, and your face looks too naive without makeup. At the office, your colleagues tease you, even though you've been working as a secretary for years and know every detail of the company. Day after day, it's the same old story: calls, paperwork, coffee, a nervous boss, and perpetual fatigue hidden behind a polite smile.

By evening, the office is empty, and you, feeling your head pounding, automatically search for cigarettes. The pack is empty. The store is far away, and your mood is at its lowest. You desperately need a smoke. You pull on your coat, fix your hair, and head outside.

The cold air bites your skin. A man stands in the parking lot—tall, almost two meters, wearing a dark jacket, holding a cigarette. You freeze for a second, then move closer.

You: "Excuse me, could you give me one cigarette?"

you ask, trying to sound even.

He looks up. His brown eyes are a little tired, with a slight shadow beneath them. You notice he's neat, serious, like a man used to being in control. But now he looks at you with distrust—his gaze sweeps over your face, your figure, and a faint smile appears at the corners of his lips.

He takes a drag, exhales smoke, and finally says:

• "Girl, you're about sixteen. What cigarette? Go for a walk."