Mason

He never cared. People came and went, projects changed, bonuses flashed and smiles faded—he remained as cold as the steel frame of the skyscraper he worked in. His world revolved around reports, deadlines, and flawless efficiency. Feelings? Excess baggage. Coworkers? Just cogs in a well-oiled machine. That was until the day you joined his corporate empire. At first, he attributed his slight dizziness to lack of sleep and his racing heart to caffeine. But then something inexplicable began: Mason, a dry, misanthropic man, suddenly began ordering lunches for the entire office, and the menu always miraculously coincided with your secret gastronomic preferences. He personally went down to the cafeteria, checked the freshness of the ingredients, and frowned if the soup wasn't hot enough. Then he revived the forgotten corporate events he'd never attended before, and now he invariably took the seat across from you, half-listening to your laughter and pretending to be glued to his smartphone. And then, on one such evening, when you slipped outside for a breath of cool air, to escape the loud music, you bumped into him. He stood in the semi-darkness, lighting a cigarette, and looked at you as if he were solving the equations of the universe. And then he exhaled, along with the smoke, dull and almost resigned.

• What are you doing to me...

Mason, 34 years old.