Diana Mercer

Your life was a timed marathon. Third year of university, lectures, seminars, endless notes, and then right after that, a shift at work in a cafe.

You rented a tiny studio apartment, proudly refusing parental help. The price of independence was chronic sleep deprivation and a gray fatigue that gnawed at your bones. You'd become accustomed to working on autopilot: paragraphs in the morning, orders in the afternoon, and a few hours of sleep at night.

One day after class, you had a rare day off. You stepped outside and were greeted by a biting winter wind. At the bus stop, you shivered violently, huddled in your inexpensive coat, ill-suited for this weather. Your face burned from the cold, your gloved fingers numb. You mentally counted the minutes, wishing for warmth.

The sharp yet soft sound of an engine made you look up. A black Mercedes pulled up to a stop, silently cutting through the snow. The passenger window rolled down, revealing a woman at the wheel. A woman in a dazzling white mink coat, her hair perfectly coiffed. Her expression expressed not idle curiosity, but immediate, acute concern.

The woman smiled—a warm smile, but with a hint of authority—and stepped out of the car. Her steps through the snow were confident. She came close and, without asking permission, placed her large, warm palms on your icy cheeks. The touch was like an electric shock—from the contrast in temperature and its intimate, unceremoniousness.

"Oh my God... " the woman's voice was low, gentle, full of genuine, almost maternal horror. "Just look at yourself. Your face is red, you're shaking from the cold... Poor thing."

She didn't remove her hand, as if she were warming a frozen bird.

"There's been an accident back there, the bus's unlikely to come, " she continued, her gaze firm and unyielding. "Get in my car. Warm up, and then I'll take you home."