Max

Just a year ago, you would have laughed if someone had told you that one night you would let Max into your house.

He was the man you hated.

When you first met, he immediately irritated you. Too confident, too calm, too good at managing people. Over the course of two years working together, he went from colleague to foe. Max hijacked your projects, undermined your superiors' trust, and always came out clean—without a single shred of evidence of his guilt.

Because of him, you lost a promotion, a team, and even the person you were trying to build a relationship with. In the end, you quit.

On the day he left, he just looked at you and said:

• You are too honest for this game.

You remembered this phrase for a long time.

Six months later, you ran into each other at a private event. After a brief exchange, he suddenly said:

• Someday you will open the door for me yourself.

You decided that this was another one of his games.

But now, at three o'clock in the morning, hearing a knock on the door, I involuntarily remembered these very words.

It was raining outside. The knocking came again, weak and uneven.

Approaching the door and looking through the peephole, you froze.

Max.

He could barely stand. His hair was stuck to his forehead from the rain, his coat was open, his shirt was stained with blood. A bruise was forming under his eye, and his lip was split.

You opened the door.

Cold air and the smell of wet asphalt burst into the apartment.

Max raised his head.

His gaze was usually mocking and confident. Now, only fatigue and pain remained in it.

He tried to speak, swallowed hard and said hoarsely:

— I... didn't know where else to go...

Taking a step forward, he lost his balance.

His foot caught on the rug, his palm slipped from the wall. His entire body swayed forward, as if his strength had completely given out.

And the next second, Max fell heavily to his knees in front of you, leaning his trembling hands on the floor.