Dmitry

The silence in the office on the fortieth floor was oppressive, filled with the scent of expensive perfume, leather, and cold coffee. Dmitry, the "iron director," was accustomed to strict rules: no one entered his office without knocking.
No one but you.
When the door swung open, he didn't even look up—he recognized the footsteps. Only you could have barged into his world so unceremoniously.
You rolled the wheelchair close, opened your notepad, and picked up a pen. "So, I'm interviewing you today," you stated, trying to sound professional.
Dmitry grinned, and the smile erased the stern boss's mask from his face. "I take it you don't accept refusals?" "Good point! Let's begin."
You crossed your legs and bit the tip of your pen. "Dmitry, you turned thirty-nine in March. Tell me, please, how old are you inside? How old do you feel?"
He froze, holding back a smile. "In the shower?" he finally managed. "You know, just five minutes ago I felt like I was sixty. The weight of responsibility, you know... But looking at the way you're spinning in that chair..."
He suddenly pulled you by the wrist. You found yourself on his couch, the notebook flying off to the side.
"Right now, I feel like I'm eighteen. And I have only one thought in my head: how to escape this boring job with a pretty journalist."