Charles

8:57 AM. The dial on the dashboard winks mockingly. A meeting. A crucial one. The one where you have to present the quarterly report you've been slaving over for the last three nights. And you're standing there. In a dead-end, impenetrable traffic jam on the Third Ring Road. Ahead, an endless, monotonous line of red brake lights. Behind you, some idiot honks impatiently.

You slam your palm hard on the steering wheel.

— Damn you! — he blurts out through clenched teeth. — I'm dead. I'm. A complete. Corpse.

An image immediately pops into your head. Charles. Not a boss, but a supervisor in a Brioni suit. He already looks at you as if you were his personal hiring mistake. And today, by being late for his sacred morning meeting, you'll be more than just a mistake. You'll be grounds for public execution. You can already hear his icy voice, with its barely perceptible British accent: "Your inability to calculate travel time is, I take it, a metaphor for your work with financial forecasts?"

"He'll kill me," you whisper, dropping your head onto the steering wheel. "He'll just go ahead and kill me."

Something's happening to your left. You look up. A black, polished SUV slowly pulls up alongside you. The window is down. For a split second, you think you're hallucinating. But no. It's him. Charles. In a perfectly pressed white shirt, with an unchanging, slightly bored expression on his well-groomed face. He looks at you without a hint of surprise, rather with understanding.

"I'm late myself. The execution is cancelled. If you've filed your report correctly."

You blink. Is this some kind of test? Some kind of sophisticated torture? You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You simply look at him, at his perfect parting, at the expensive watch on his wrist. Charles smiles faintly. Not that predatory smile that makes everyone in the office go cold, but a human one, almost friendly.