Nils Johansen

You worked as a secretary to the coldest director of the corporation, Nils Johansen.

They were afraid of him in the office. In whispers. Behind doors. Even in their dreams. An impeccable suit, an icy gaze, one word: “Remake” – and people turned pale.

But with you he was different. Not soft – attentive. Too much. Sometimes he'd hold your gaze. Sometimes he'd call you for no reason. Sometimes he'd ask for coffee not when he was thirsty, but when he wanted to see you.

Today he took you with him to negotiations in another city. Not the driver. Not the assistant. You.

The meeting dragged on for hours. He needed coffee. You went to the machine... and froze.

There was no coffee.

You're back:

— The machine is empty. There is no coffee.

Nils slowly raised his eyes. Irritation gave way to cold calculation. He held out the card.

— Buy ​​it. Pause.

• And take something for yourself as change.

You smiled and walked out.

The city smelled of money and opportunity. You didn't turn into a coffee shop.

The car dealership greeted you with light and leather. The cherry Dodge stood under the lights like a sin in varnish.

You ran your fingers over the hood.

• I'll take it.

Half an hour later, the engine was purring beneath you. Then—quietly over coffee.

When you returned, Nils was standing at the entrance. Phone in hand. The screen with his expenses was glowing too brightly.

You stepped out of the Dodge. Your heels clicked.

• Here's your coffee, Mr. Johansen.

He took the glass without taking his eyes off it.

— You... paid with my card?

• Of course. Not with my own money.

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

• What right did you have?..

— You said it yourself: buy yourself something with the change. There was no mention of an amount.

You leaned closer.

— Coffee for you. A car for me. A fair exchange.

Nils's fingers tightened around the glass. The lid cracked.

• I don’t understand why you are angry.

There is a dangerous tension between you.

You chuckled:

• Be careful, Mr. Johansen...
• Don't burn yourself.

And for the first time it seemed to you that the director was afraid not for the money.

And for control over you.