The sky over the city hung like old laundry, worn and faded from too much washing. A fine, sharp drizzle shaved the air; people scurried along, apologizing to one another when their umbrellas touched. The bloated, pretentious building — seemingly dulled by the constant roar of the intersection below — looked like an ageing coquette whose hairstyle had been ruined by the rain. “Autumn,” thought Mr. K. with a quiet sigh, as he carefully shook out his umbrella, scanning the chaos of logos and company signs on the opposite lobby wall, trying to locate the familiar garish one.

Around him, others were also shaking out their umbrellas with equal care, then searching the wall with their eyes and heading off toward the lift queue. Only one of the two elevators was in operation. In front of the other stood a bright yellow sign featuring a grinning mechanic icon. No mechanics in sight — just the sign.

Mr. K. waited patiently for his turn, endured the crush inside the elevator for a full fourteen floors, then slipped out, not forgetting his umbrella. The corridor, soaked in an oppressive bath of neon light, led him to a narrow armored door with a doorbell shaped like the company’s logo. K. reached out and pressed it.

“What is the gentleman’s business?” a firm male voice startled him, coming from somewhere above. K. looked up but saw nothing.

“K. My name is K.,” he stammered. “I have an appointment. Seven p.m., Investment Department.”

“One moment,” replied the voice, then added, “Are you carrying any metal objects?”

K. patted his pockets: a few coins, his keys, the phone.

“Please place everything in the box that will emerge to your right.”

K. followed the instructions.

“Very well,” the voice said at last. “You may proceed.”

Inside, the sterile blandness of a modern office building awaited him. A row of identical cubicles to the right, a row of identical glass-fronted offices to the left. People with folders under their arms, chewing hamburgers as they moved. And security guards — two by the door, and two more pacing evenly between the cubicles.

“Mr. K. to cubicle number 36,” called a disinterested voice over the intercom. “Right side, third corridor, sixth cubicle.”

K. hurried along, fiddling with his pockets. He hated this suit. Hated suits in general. And the tie always made him think of a hangman’s noose — inverted.

The office clerk was seated with her back to him, typing away.

“One moment, almost done,” she said over her shoulder. “Sit, make yourself comfortable.”

K. sat down in the chair, which bore a few stains — maybe coffee, maybe sweat. He placed the briefcase on his lap, opened it, and took out the stack of documents he had spent the past week preparing.

“No need for that,” she shot back, still not turning around. “I told you, I’m nearly ready.”

K. hesitated. He ran a hand over the folder, then obediently returned it to the briefcase.

“Excellent,” she said, now turning to face him. “How can I help you?”

K. stared at her, slightly stunned. She was unexpectedly beautiful — slender and delicate, with dark hair, surprisingly deep eyes, no makeup, barely touched eyebrows, and those wondrous dimples in her cheeks…

“I need…” he began, uncertainly.

“…a loan,” she finished, kindly. “I know. You can get straight to the point. We work with fewer formalities here.”

K. instinctively reached for the briefcase again. He stopped mid-motion and gave her an embarrassed look.

“Everything’s in there,” he explained.

“Why don’t you just tell me something about your bankruptcy?” she smiled. The dimples on her cheeks bloomed like cherry blossoms. “It was only one so far, wasn’t it? After… fifteen fairly successful years, from what I see. How did it come to that?”

K. swallowed dryly. She poured a glass of mineral water. He looked at her gratefully and drank greedily.

“I suppose your partners were unreliable,” she offered, studying him closely. “Were you deceived, Mr. K.?”

K. rubbed his chin nervously.

“No, quite the opposite,” he said glumly. “My partners were… are… very honorable people.”

“Does that mean the fault lies with you?” she asked, leaning toward him. Her nostrils flared slightly, catching his scent. “Was it you who sank the company, Mr. K.?”

“No, no… Or rather, I don’t know. Sometimes… integrity isn’t enough. In the end… we just couldn’t understand each other. Despite everything.”

“But we know they left you, Mr. K., even though you did everything you could to keep them. Why? Pardon me, could you look me in the eyes? Thank you, that’s better.”

K. had a sudden coughing fit.

“There wasn’t… any other option. Truly none. But the shareholders chose me. In the end, after all the… turmoil. That’s the truth, not an exaggeration.”

“One moment.” She turned back to the keyboard and began typing briskly. K. looked around and, to his surprise, realized they were alone in the room. Only the Turkish cleaning lady remained in the back, near the entrance, dumping wastebaskets into a large plastic bag.

“Go on,” the clerk prompted. “I’m listening.”

“May I ask you something?” K. said, somewhat nervously. “What do those letters mean?”

He pointed to the wall where a neon panel blinked rhythmically: “C.T.”, “O.T.” Then again: “C.T.”, “O.T.”

“Oh, that?” Her dimples lit up once more. “Nothing special. Company secret. Please continue.”

“That’s probably everything,” he muttered. He was starting to get annoyed. This was beginning to feel like a game of cat and mouse.

In the next instant, he flinched and nearly shouted, but the dead-serious warning in her eyes froze him. She had just kicked him under the table.

“Smile,” she said in an oddly distorted way, barely moving her lips. “And keep talking normally. We’re being watched.”

K. coughed again.

“The truth is,” she continued in the same hissing whisper, “our bank isn’t exactly doing well either. We’ve already gone bankrupt — twice. And while the first time was relatively painless, the second involved a full-blown legal war with our former partners. Turns out they’d been misusing the bank’s assets for years. Plus, three years ago we took some… risky steps that now make us highly dependent on market conditions. We’re not issuing any loans. To anyone.”

K. made a move to get up.

“Which doesn’t mean you should give up right away,” she whispered. “Sometimes miracles happen.”

“We’ll need more information,” she added in a normal voice. “Try to convince us. Win us over. Make an effort.”

K. gave her a crooked look. Fine, if you're so insistent.

“The thing is,” he began, “I have this peculiar… inner voice.”

“Inner voice? Now that already sounds much better. Tell me more about your inner voice, Mr. K.”

“Well… it speaks very rarely. Actually, it doesn’t speak — it just makes me do things I don’t understand. Not always. But later, they always turn out to be right.”

“Very good. And this… inner voice… sent you to us? Is that what I should understand?”

“I don’t know… I’m not quite sure. But I do know this is my only chance. For me… and maybe for you too.”

“Bold. I like that,” she smiled. “In any case, I’d recommend you wear a better cologne next time. This one… smells a bit cheap.”

“Besides, I know I’m a good person,” he went on, unbothered. “I know that now. Really.”

“Yes, that somewhat lowers the risk,” she agreed. “But it’s not enough. Bring more arguments. Convince us.”

“Look, I get that you’ve worked for years to get where you are,” Mr. K. suddenly burst out. “Bankruptcies, lawsuits, disasters, betrayals — you overcame all of it on your own, through sheer effort, and now you feel relatively safe and independent, maybe it even seems like you don’t need any change. But that… that leads nowhere. I know it, and so do you. Why not take the risk? Why not trust me? Is it really that terrifying?”

The doors of one of the side offices burst open, and the guards stormed in — silent as characters in a silent film. Two of them grabbed the office woman by the arms and dragged her backward, ignoring her screams. The third one clamped Mr. K. in a vise-like grip, twisted his arms behind his back, and held him so tightly he couldn’t move a finger. The fourth pulled out the big knife — the one that ends every story about Mr. K. — tested it casually against his thumbnail, and then began searching for the proper spot in the chest…

***

“Cut!” the director shouted. “Cut. That’s enough for today. Good take, but we might need to do it again. Mrs. K. didn’t quite sound convincing.”

“You’re a bit low-energy today, darling,” he said to the slender woman who had approached, holding her usual cup of instant coffee. “What’s wrong, are you all right?”

“Ah, just one of those days,” she said tiredly. “Tomorrow will probably be better.”

“Uh-huh. All right, then. Tomorrow we start at seven sharp — no delays. We’ve only got two weeks left. Otherwise the producers will be sending me greetings from our Ukrainian comrades. See you tomorrow.”

***

The rain had stopped. A pleasant, unexpectedly warm breeze blew outside. Mrs. K. slipped her hand into Mr. K.’s pocket and interlaced her fingers with his.

“Mmm, toasty,” she purred and snuggled up to him. “Do you think they’re asleep yet?”

He glanced at his watch, sneakily.

“One hundred percent. But we can still hurry, of course.”

“Wait, wait. Look up.”

He raised his eyes and stopped in his tracks. Above their heads, clusters of fat, smiling stars were glowing.

“What a romantic night,” he whispered, a bit embarrassed.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Very romantic.”

And she kissed him.

***

“What a load of rubbish,” thought Mr. K., rereading for the umpteenth time the tear-stained, crumpled manuscript someone had stuffed in his mailbox. “In the end, the only thing that really matters is that one day I’ll turn into a giant insect with a chitin shell — and she’ll throw apples at me. In vain, by the way.”

He tore the manuscript into pieces, carefully checking that they were small enough to make reading impossible, then stirred them into the rest of the trash in the bin.

He looked at his watch and rushed out. Time was marching on. Tomorrow was another day: eight hours in the office, two hours swimming, a few murderous hours with the family, and finally, solitary masturbation…

The usual.