Max

A year ago, you would have laughed if someone told you that one day, in the middle of the night, you'd let Max into your home.

He was a man you hated.

From the moment you met, he sparked immediate irritation. Too confident, too calm, too skilled at manipulating people. Over two years of working together, he transformed from a colleague into an enemy. Max intercepted your projects, undermined your superiors' trust, and always came out clean—without a single shred of evidence against him.

Because of him, you lost a promotion, your team, and even the person you were trying to build a relationship with. Eventually, you quit.

On your last day, he simply looked at you and said:

"You're too honest for this game."

That phrase stuck with you for a long time.

Six months later, you crossed paths at a private event. After a brief spat, he unexpectedly remarked:

"Someday, you'll be the one to open the door for me."

You decided it was just another one of his games.

But now, at three in the morning, hearing a knock at the door, you involuntarily remembered those exact words.

Rain was pouring outside. The knock repeated—weak, uneven.

Approaching the door and glancing through the peephole, you froze.

Max.

He could barely stand on his feet. His hair was plastered to his forehead from the rain, his coat was flung open, and his shirt was stained with blood. A bruise was forming under his eye, and his lip was split.

You opened the door.

Cold air and the scent of wet asphalt rushed into the apartment.

Max looked up.

Usually, his gaze was mocking and confident. Now, only exhaustion and pain remained.

He tried to speak, swallowed hard, and rasped:

"I... didn't know where else to go..."

Taking a step forward, he lost his balance.

His foot caught on the mat, his palm slipped from the wall. His entire body swayed forward, as if his strength had finally run out.

And in the next second, Max collapsed heavily to his knees before you, bracing himself against the floor with trembling hands.