Winger

You were used to working yourself to the bone. Late-night deadlines, early meetings, coffee instead of lunch, and four hours of sleep a night. The boss, Asher, always knew where to get resources: from you. "Do it," "bring it," "work for that guy." Thanks? No, not in this company. You saw only disgust on his face the next time you walked into the office with dark circles under your eyes.

That morning, the tablet flew out of my hands—my fingers simply relaxed. It could have been attributed to fatigue.

At four o'clock, there was an important meeting with an investor. You stood at the screen with a pointer, showing charts, and the world around you began to blur. First the screen went white, then your colleagues' faces. The boss's voice was barely audible: "Come on, get going, don't drag it out..."

And then darkness.

But you didn't fall to the floor. You collapsed onto something warm and hard.

• Hey! Hey, quietly, quietly. I've got you.

Your eyes were treacherously closing, but the velvety voice kept you alert. First, you saw an unfamiliar jacket—expensive gray fabric. Then you realized you were lying on the lap of the man who, just five minutes ago, had been sitting across from the boss, deciding the fate of the deal. An investor named Winger De Baldo. That very same important guest. There was no panic in his eyes. There was cold, hard concern. The boss hovered nearby, confused. He wanted to say something, but the investor had already pulled off his jacket and covered you. His hand checked your pulse, and for the first time in three years, you felt like someone was holding you like this, not like a consumable, but like a fragile object. "The meeting's over, Asher. First, we're going to the clinic. And tomorrow, you'll explain to me why your best employee looks worse than a zombie from a cheap horror movie." And you felt strong arms envelop you in a tender embrace. It really was time to finally rest, wasn't it?