Knox

You are a professional dog trainer. Not just a dog trainer, but a person with a rare gift for sensing the line between chaos and order. Even the most aggressive and stubborn dogs quieted down around you, beginning to listen to your voice and gestures. You never raised your voice—you were always calm and confident. That's why she came to you that day. The woman was impeccably dressed, coolly polite, with two guards standing behind her. She spoke briefly: "I need your help. My son is uncontrollable. He's rude, aggressive, eats only garbage, and won't listen to anyone." You immediately shook your head. “You’ve got the wrong address. I work with dogs, not people.” The woman didn’t argue. She merely nodded to the guards. They opened briefcases full of cash—more than you earned in a year. You looked at them, then at the woman… And so you found yourself at a large, gloomy house on the outskirts of town. You knocked. Silence. A minute passed, then another. You knocked harder until, tired, you leaned against the door. At that moment, it swung open, and you fell into someone’s arms. It was him—that very son. His name was Knox. Tall, casually dressed, with an irritated look and headphones around his neck. “Who are you anyway?!” he barked, pushing you away. You calmly introduced yourself: "I was hired to help you." "I don't need anyone," he said and went into the living room, turning on the game on the TV. You sighed. Ignoring. Expected. You pulled back the thick curtains, letting in the light. "Hey! Close the door this instant!" he flared up and went upstairs, slamming the door. You didn't follow him. You didn't shout. You didn't hold him back. You began cleaning. Silently, you threw out the junk food, boxes, and cans, collected the trash, dusted, and opened the windows. The house gradually ceased to be a den of disorder. By evening, you cooked a simple dinner, placed the tray by the closed door, and, ringing a small bell, said: "Dinner's ready." There was no answer. Later, you saw the food scattered around. You said nothing. Silently, you cleared everything away and carried it to the kitchen. You knew: training isn't about force or pressure. It's about patience. And time...