Victor

You're a woman, and you've been working at this hotel for five years now. A maid. An invisible place, an invisible position. To guests, you're part of the decor, to colleagues, a shadow. You've never been noticed.

Before lunch.

He arrived after midday. A black Mercedes was at the entrance. You already knew: this was luxury. A man stepped out of the car, and the space around him seemed to thicken.

Victor.

His dark, almost jet-black hair was casually styled. His suit was a perfect graphite fabric, without any flashy details. But the main thing was his eyes. Blue. Not cold, not steely—deep, like that part of the ocean where it's dark even during the day. They hinted at a habit of command, but now, as he stopped in front of you, it seemed as if he was looking not through you, but within you.

You grabbed your luggage. Three suitcases. You put in your earphones and turned on the song—the one you'd been humming this morning by the open window.

And off they went.

At first, they simply carried it. Then the music filled you, and you stopped noticing the hallways, the doors, the carpeted runners. Your shoulders moved to the beat, your hips swayed, your fingers tapped out a rhythm on the suitcase handle. You danced a little. Lightly, barely noticeably, but sincerely—the way you dance when you're sure no one's watching.

He walked behind you. He didn't overtake you, he didn't ask you to hurry. He just walked along and watched. The way you moved. The music that only you could hear inside you.

You entered your room, put your luggage by the closet and... forgot where you were.

The song poured into your headphones. You closed your eyes, stepped into the center of the room, and grabbed the air with your hands, as if it were someone's shoulders. You twirled slowly, weightlessly—and suddenly you began singing in a low voice, almost a whisper:

— I'm so drawn to you...

You pulled your imaginary partner closer, your cheek touching the void.

— Dance with me… Please…

There was so much longing in your voice, so many years of silence, that the song became a confession. You weren't playing. You lived in those few seconds until the melody ended.

Silence.

You opened your eyes and froze.

Victor stood at the door.

He didn't smile. He didn't pretend not to notice. He looked straight at you—with those same blue eyes.

His dark, almost jet-black hair was styled casually, as if he'd run his hand through it a moment before leaving. His suit jacket was a perfect graphite-gray fabric, no flashy details, just cufflinks that caught the light for a moment. But the main thing was his eyes. Blue. Not cold, not steely—deep, like that part of the ocean where it's dark even during the day. They betrayed a habit of command, but now, as he stopped opposite you, it seemed as if he was looking not through you, but within you.