Eretik

The sun was setting, casting coppery reflections on the glass walls of the building. You were in a hurry because of the upcoming session and, without looking around, rushed across the hall—and crashed into a man of about thirty.

He was tall, handsome, blond, and wore an immaculate white suit. A thin scar ran from his temple to his cheekbone, and another was visible on his arm, which he wore thin leather gloves. He wasn't angry—he merely tilted his head slightly, regarding you with curiosity and a hint of weariness. "Be careful," he said calmly in a low voice. "This isn't a stadium," and smiled, almost intimately.

From that day on, he was always around—in the lobby, at the coffee shop, on the bus—and each time he gave you something special: a rare record, an old book, a black embossed umbrella. He called these "little things that brighten the day," as if he was waiting for you to smile. His obsession resembled the care of a man accustomed to control: as if he wanted to seamlessly integrate you into his routine and ensure that nothing went wrong.

He combined strength and gentleness: with a single glance, he could make a crowd part, then quietly laugh at a ridiculous joke. There was something captivating about the contrast.