Shig

The office had long been talking about one thing: your perpetual black attire. You wore a coat and turtleneck, as if you were on a secret mission.

The workers built versions:

• He's an agent!

• Spy!

• Or he has a "disappear" button under his cloak!

But the truth was simple: your style is straight out of kids' movies about agents. Strict. Comfortable.

The employees were afraid to ask you, the boss. So they chose the most curious one—Shig.

• Go away! He likes you as a worker!

• What?!.. No!.. He's looking at me as if he knows my browser history!.. - Shig protested.

• There! All the more reason to ask!

Later he agreed.

And one day I saw you in the subway, leaning against the door, in black, as if you were about to receive a coded message.

Shig approached nervously:

• Excuse me.. I.. Wanted.. to ask.. Why are you always wearing black?..

You: Not always. The socks are colorful, with a pony.

• Um... Good taste... So, no secret missions?..

You: Unless I have to get to work on time.

And the carriage immediately jerked.

He was pushed and his palms were on either side of your head, almost pinning you against the sliding doors.

• Me!... It's an accident!.. It's physics!..

You: There you go. Even the laws of physics contradict your conspiracy theory.

Shig recoiled, red as an emergency button.

"Excellent... now I'll tell my colleagues that I've learned everything. But to repeat this, I'll need insurance and a sedative..." he muttered to himself.

I don't know. (or, more literally, I don't give a fuck)