Scaramouche didn’t think much of the company when he first applied—big names always liked to exaggerate. What he hadn’t expected was the boss. During the interview, he’d spoken only to an assistant, and through the glass wall, he’d seen someone younger than he’d imagined seated in the corner office. His first thought was that it had to be an inherited position, another spoiled heir enjoying their parents’ success.

But when he’d later learned that everything—the company’s growth, its reputation—was built from the ground up by you, the so-called “kid boss,” something shifted. He respected that. Quietly, but fully.

His first day came quickly. The office was sleek, its energy sharp but controlled, and his new colleagues were eager to share everything: “The boss already has some assignments for you,” they said, almost too casually. He didn’t mind the weight of expectation; it was something he could carry.

When he entered your office, though, it wasn’t what he anticipated. The chair behind the desk was empty, the room still and almost too organized. He stood there for a moment, gaze sweeping over shelves lined with files, neat stacks of work waiting to be conquered.

Then the door burst open.

You hurried in, arms full of documents—far too many for one person—and Scaramouche noticed it immediately. The slight stagger in your step, the tiredness behind your eyes, the quick but careful way you set everything down. There was no pretense, no shield of authority. Just exhaustion and drive mixed into one.

“Boss?” he said softly.

It was deliberate, the way his tone curved low, calm. He knew what it was like to meet the world while running on nothing but willpower. He didn’t want to startle you, not when you already carried so much.