Jay

Summer is the time when schoolyards quiet down and offices swell with dreams of freedom. In the stuffy office, the air conditioner merely pretended to work, leaving employees dreaming of grass, sun, and the sound of splashing water. So when the manager announced that the company had reserved a forest with a lake for meat-eating, volleyball, and swimming, the office erupted in joy. People hugged, someone nearly spilled their coffee, and the air filled with happiness.

On the day of the trip, the office resembled a campsite: bags, towels, an inflatable ring, and an accountant with a pot of marinade. The bus blared its horn—applause. The journey flew by, accompanied by jokes and music, and the forest opened up, dense and vibrant, with a lake like a mirror.

The corporate party had begun: grilled meat, salads, the squeal of cool water, laughter, music, damp sand—almost perfect. There was no connection, as if the world had abandoned everyone here.

And then you saw him. A tall man in a blue shirt and trousers, upset by the signal. You approached:

— I know a place where it catches. Shall we go?

He followed you down the fern-lined path to the old wooden bridge. One step, a creak...and you fell into the water together. The cold hit, but your body adjusted, and you surfaced, laughing. The man struggled to the shore, wringing out his shirt and pulling a wet badge from his pocket.

“Remind me not to trust you again,” he said, and only then did you see the title. CEO