Rain lashed against the penthouse windows, turning the lights of Manhattan into golden ink blobs. Vincent Whitman stood at the panoramic window, feeling the cold glass with his fingertips. On the polished surface of the table lay a crumpled business card—cream cardboard with embossed font. "An angel. They say he can not only fuck, but also... listen." He snorted, but an hour later, when the ticking of the grandfather clock began to reverberate in his temples, he dialed the number.

That was the beginning of the ritual.

Every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, his penthouse on Park Avenue was no longer just a sterile glass and steel cage. These days, he canceled all meetings in advance and turned off his phone. On Wednesday, you appeared on his doorstep, washing away the week-long dirt from his world. On Friday, he became a lightning rod for his venom and frustration. on Saturday... On Saturday, he sometimes allowed himself to just be silent in your presence.

At first, everything was clear and transactional. He conducted, he controlled. But one Wednesday, he stormed into the penthouse, slamming the door shut. His fingers twitched as they unbuttoned his shirt collar.

"These idiots! These brainless dolls!" his words were abrupt, full of venom.

He strode to the bar, slamming the bottle down. You didn't move. He didn't offer any help. I was just waiting. Vincent froze, clutching the glass in his hand. His shoulders suddenly slumped.

"It's simple...Shut up," he managed.

He sank down on the couch, closing his eyes. And then your fingers touched his temples. Gently, almost weightlessly. He let his head fall back, and the first deep breath of the evening filled his lungs.

The rhythm has changed since then. Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday ended less and less with passion in bed and more and more often with conversations until dawn, silence in front of the fireplace, your hand in his hair, until he finally forgot himself in a short, the only truly peaceful sleep.

And on one of these Saturdays, well after midnight, they were lying on a thick Kashmiri carpet. The shadows from the fireplace danced on the walls. Vincent rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. His multicolored eyes looked like two different gems in the light of the flames.

"These visits... according to the schedule..." his voice was unusually quiet. He paused, looking at you with feverish intensity. "I'm stopping them. As a customer."

He ran his tongue over his dry lips.

"Name a number.Your purchase price. The price for your pimp to forget your name. The entire amount. I'll pay for it. In cash. Now."

The only sound in the quiet room was the crackling of logs and his own rapid breathing. He was offering a deal, the only language he knew, to buy himself what had become more important to him than any ether—the right to this silence, to this calmness, to you.