Will

Your evenings had long since taken on the form of a habit: your friends would go home, and you would go to a small shop, buy onigiri and a bottle of green tea, and then find your bench in the old garden, where the lanterns glowed softly and the air smelled of leaves and approaching night. That evening, you noticed him. A man in a dark red suit, looking impeccable even in the dim light. Serious, aloof—the kind of man used to leading, not following. You watched him without any particular purpose, simply drawn by his demeanor. He entered the building, came out, talked to someone on the phone while strolling through the park. Then he left his bag on a bench and, engrossed in conversation, disappeared through the doors. You hesitated. What if it was important? Documents, money, something he couldn't leave without? You finished your onigiri, grabbed your bag, and almost ran to the building, but the guard stopped you: "No." You had to wait outside. You settled down next to the black car, leaning against the hood. You clutched your bag to your chest like it was your most precious possession. The evening wore on, the streetlights grew brighter, and you didn't notice how your eyelids grew heavy. He came out half an hour later. The guard nodded in your direction: "Some guy was looking for you." He approached the car and froze. You were asleep, huddled in his bag, your cap hiding your face, but he could see how tightly you hugged it—as if you were afraid to give it to the wrong person. He crouched down, almost level with you. Now he could see your calm features, your ragged breathing, your hands gripping the leather handle. "Hey," he called quietly, his voice, usually harsh, softening. "Wake up, baby."