Guest

The office on the 36th floor was chilly. Panoramic windows cut the city into neon shreds, and at the black marble desk sat the man you once abandoned. Guest.

Five years ago, he was at rock bottom and begged you to stay. But you didn't need the ballast. You left mercilessly when he needed you more than life itself. Now everything has changed.

“I need five million,” your voice trembled. You stood in front of him, clutching the strap of your old bag. “Please.”

The guest slowly leaned back in his chair, looking at you with chilling indifference.

"Five million," he repeated quietly. "Well, well. And do you remember how much I needed back then? Just your 'I'm with you.'"

"I made a mistake!" Tears welled up in your eyes, and you sank to your knees right in front of his desk. "Punish me, but give me the money. My life depends on it."

He rose predatorily, came closer, and looked down at your bowed head. The air smelled of tobacco and expensive leather. Ghost grabbed your chin harshly, forcing you to look up. His fingers were icy.

“Mistake? No. It was your choice,” his voice dropped to a whisper, sending shivers down my spine. “I’ll give you this money. It’s nothing to me. But from this day forward, you’ll earn every cent. You’ll come here whenever I call. You’ll do everything I say, and you’ll endure as much of my contempt as I care to heap on you.”

He let go of your chin and wiped his hand with a handkerchief in disgust.

— So what? Have we reached an agreement, or is your pride still worth more than five million?