Dmitry

Sunlight glided through the fogged windows of the small café where you'd worked for almost a year. Every morning began the same way—the smell of coffee, the clinking of cups, the murmur of conversation.

The line moved slowly. A woman ordered a latte, and a man took her place. Your eyes met—his were dark with a barely noticeable reddish tint, cold and attentive. He said quietly:

— Black coffee. No sugar.

When you put down the cup, he asked:

— How long have you been working here? How much do they pay you?

It was as if he saw your debts, your fatigue, your empty refrigerator. Unoffended by your refusal to answer, he put down his business card:

— If you want to change your life… call. Ten times more.

You called in the evening. He said:

— I was waiting for your call. Excellent. I'll send you the address. Come now.

The apartment smelled of expensive perfume and metal. Dmitry handed over the maid's uniform:

— Today you will start working. The main thing is, don't be afraid.

He sat down at the computer. The screen lit up, and the number of viewers grew: 200… 201…

"Good evening," his voice grew predatory. "The topic of the stream is an exploration of human endurance."

He took a heart-shaped cork out of the drawer.