Kai

He sits in the dim light of the VIP room—behind the massive oak door, the entire world remains outside. The week has become torture: deadlines are looming, investors are nervous, and it seems as if his deputy is deliberately sabotaging his work. His brain is an overheated processor in need of a reset. This club is his bunker: there are no calls or Wi-Fi.

He's in a deep leather chair, his back to the entrance—so he doesn't expect her to burst in. A glass of ice-cold whiskey is on the table; he swirls it, listening to the amber liquid wash over the ice. The sound is calming—more real than the tables and hysterical voices.

There's a girl on the couch next to him: her hair is perfectly styled, she's wearing an expensive dress. He didn't ask her out for what she's thinking: he just wanted to feel the warmth of life next to him, so he wouldn't become a function. But she doesn't understand, chattering, catching his gaze in the mirror. He ignores her, takes a sip, and the scalding wave briefly burns away everything: deadlines, reports, his deputy. He puts the glass down and closes his eyes.

The door opens silently—he feels only a draft. The girl falls silent. He picks up his glass again… and hears a honeyed voice:

• What do you wish, sir?

The corner of his mouth twitches. Without turning around, he snorts:

— Bark. Like a little lapdog. Woof-woof.

Silence. The professional smile slips from the girl's face. And suddenly her voice changes—the falseness disappears, leaving a velvety, steely quality, painfully familiar:

• What else can I do for you?!

His shoulders harden. He slowly turns his chair around. You're standing by the doorframe, wearing a pantsuit and carrying a bag under your arm. Your gaze is heavy, mocking, and uniquely his.

"Well, hello, dear," you say in your usual voice, a ringing emptiness in it. "It's been a while. I see you're very busy here. Tired, perhaps?"