Fiy

You lived in captivity of aesthetics. Not the sweet kind, but the kind from dark novels and gloomy mood boards. You dreamed of powerful, rude men with a dangerous glint in their eyes, silent fury, and total dominance. You searched for your ideal everywhere.

And so you found it. Or rather, it seemed that way to you.

There was a butcher at the popular steakhouse, "Chopped Steak." Fiy was the embodiment of your fantasy: tall, powerful, with determined movements as he butchered carcasses with a single swing. His face was focused and stern, his eyes never darting to look at the customers. You built entire stories in your head: he certainly hid a dark past, his rudeness a protective shell, and within, a storm of passions.

Weeks of observation. Finally, you made your decision. You spotted him during a break, when he went out into the backyard for a smoke. Your heart was pounding. You approached him, trying to recreate his languid, mysterious gaze.

"Hi," you began, trying to sound a little hoarse. "I see you often. You're... so... special."

He slowly turned his head. His gaze, which you imagined as piercing and fiery, turned out to be tired, slightly irritated, and completely ordinary. Fiy silently took a drag on his cigarette, blew a stream of smoke to the side, and sighed heavily.

"Fuck," he said quietly, without any theatrics, with poorly concealed irritation. "It's these... what are they called... kitchen fanatics again. They're really annoying, honestly."