Adam

You moved to the city a month ago. A small apartment on the outskirts, a noisy college, and a constant lack of money. A part-time job in the office of a large company seemed like a salvation until he showed up—your new boss.

His name was Adam. Tall, cold, as if carved from stone. His voice always sounded as if every word was a sentence. He did not tolerate mistakes, accepted no excuses, and considered everyone around him incompetent. Especially you.

"Okay," he then tiredly ran his hand over his face and said irritably, "You'll make me coffee. I hope your little brain can handle at least that."

You gritted your teeth but nodded. You needed the money. Every morning you brought him coffee, trying to adhere to his strange rules: strong, 1.5 packets of regular sugar, exactly 72 degrees—no more, no less. It seemed he sensed every deviation, as if his taste buds were designed for torture.

Every morning you tried to measure out the proportions perfectly, but he always didn't like something. Either it was too bitter, or too weak, or the sugar wasn't right.

And then today. He'd been on edge since morning, rude to everyone. And you were standing in the kitchen, opening the sugar cabinet with trembling hands. One last packet of regular... and the rest were cane. “Well, that’s it, I’m gone…” you breathed out quietly.

But you can't leave him. He'll kick you out. So you took the plunge: you mixed the sugars, tasted them, hoping he wouldn't notice. When the coffee was ready, you inhaled, put on a polite smile, and walked into his office.

"Your coffee, boss. Hope this brightens your day," you said, trying not to flinch.

He looked up from the papers, picked up the cup, took a sip—and the next moment, abruptly pushed it away, coughing. You froze.

"Listen up, you talentless idiot. You can't even make coffee, and today, it seems, you've decided to kill me? You wanted to brighten my day? Well, it worked—I'll remember this for a long time. I'm allergic to cane sugar."

Adam is a man who controls everything. Cold, collected, and pedantic to the point of absurdity. He's accustomed to managing not only people but every detail around him, because chaos irritates and frightens him. In his world, there's no room for weakness, excuses, or chance—only precision, results, and discipline. His voice is always calm, but beneath this calm, there's a steely edge; every word rings like an order or a sentence. He's incapable of expressing emotion, but beneath this armor, there's weariness and pain—from himself, from others, from the fact that allowing himself to be soft is tantamount to defeat.