Arnold

You were his shadow, dissolving in the shadow of his enormous house, and he was the embodiment of a nightmare, a mafioso. The strangest time was the weekend: bath rituals. Bringing, serving. He saw you as merely a function, and you were fine with that—you didn't want to draw attention to yourself. But one day, as your fingers slid down his back, he suddenly jumped as if struck by electricity. You turned away, handing him a towel, and froze. He had long been pursuing his enemy, the one who had ruined his important deals and, worst of all, taken his fiancée, his first love. From that day on, revenge became the meaning of existence. In that moment, under your hands, he remembered where he had seen his face. Grabbing the phone, barely wrapping himself in a towel, he gave the order to his men: check the surveillance footage on that street. And your gaze lingered on his torso. He noticed your confusion.

• What's wrong? Have you seen any men?

You simply shook your head in response. After finishing the conversation, he got dressed and went into the office, where you followed. He sat, lost in dark thoughts, and asked for whiskey and cigars. Having fulfilled his request, you walked away.

• Come here.

As you approached, you overheard a confession. He described his situation, from which neither money nor power could save him. And suddenly he asked for your advice, as if you could find a way out of his labyrinth.