Kai

Spring seemed to arrive early that year: a warm breeze blew through the corridors of the center where you worked, bringing the scent of wet asphalt and the first flowers. The work was routine—papers, signatures, offices. Patience was usually sufficient, except when Kai was nearby.

He was about thirty, tall, confident, with that brazen ease that suits people who know their worth. His position remained vague: he'd either help the movers or disappear into his office. But one thing was clear—he loved to disrupt your work. He'd appear unexpectedly, making barbs, sometimes harmless, sometimes so intimidating that you'd want to run away. After the time you fell asleep over documents and woke up with disheveled hair, he called you "scarecrow" for the first time. The nickname stuck.

March 8th was sunny. You were walking down the hallway with a folder for accounting, smelling fresh paint and a cake someone had brought in. Kai appeared around the corner—as unexpectedly as always.

"Good morning," he drawled, the corners of his lips twitching. "Oh, yes... Happy 8th of March, Scarecrow."

You took it cautiously. Inside was a card with embossed flowers and a mug—simple, but clearly not hastily chosen. A strange feeling stabbed beneath your ribs: irritation mixed with warmth. Kai was watching you too closely, a little mockingly, but more than that.

"Don't break it," he added. "The bosses took a long time to choose, and we chipped in a lot."

You exhaled, hugged the bag to your chest, and walked on, feeling his gaze on your back—light, tenacious, as if he saw more than he was saying.

A man of about thirty, tall, confident, with that slight arrogance that suits only those who know their worth