I read carefully what is written. The flyer advertises a well-paying temporary job, ideal for someone looking for an opportunity without too many constraints.
A light murmur fills the office, a soft symphony of sounds echoing faintly through the walls.
The dim lighting casts a warm shadow over the room, while the monotonous ticking of clocks seems to mark every second, emphasizing the silence between words.
Only the rustle of papers and the clinking of coffee cups break the stillness, a daily ritual that accompanies the flow of the day.
"I really needed this cake to calm me down," Samuel mutters under his breath, almost speaking to himself, as he stares blankly at the slice of cheesecake in front of him.
He's in a foul mood. The backlash from the news report hit him like a tidal wave.
His supporters are furious, but the worst part was the reaction from the sponsors.
The sponsors aren't just financiers; they're the lifeblood behind the Steel Lions: they provide equipment, resources, money. And their trust is no longer guaranteed. Without them, operations would collapse.
As he silently curses the sensationalism of the journalists, he digs his spoon into the Dolce Aurora cheesecake, one of the few pleasures left to him on this disastrous day.
The crunchy base crumbles perfectly under the spoon, while the velvety cream and the slightly tart flavor of raspberry jam vainly try to lift his spirits.
"Damn journalists!" he mutters, his tone barely audible but filled with rage, as he chews the next bite with unusual aggression.
He takes a sip of water, but the bitter taste of disappointment lingers, far more persistent than the sweetness of the cake.
"They always know how to dig up the information I want to keep hidden," he continues to mutter, his gaze lost outside the window, watching a city that seems to move at a different pace from his own.
If it weren't for their sneaky methods and the protection they enjoy from the upper echelons of the government, he'd have them locked up in a heartbeat.
He's convinced of that. But bureaucracy and laws are like invisible chains that hold him back, forcing him to stay still while his enemy advances.
With a heavy sigh, he tries to refocus on the cake, hoping to be enveloped again by its flavor.
BOOM!
The office door bursts open with a deafening crash, causing Samuel to jump from his chair.
The slice of cheesecake, which had been his sweet refuge just moments before, flies through the air, landing disastrously on his head.
The soft filling sticks to his hair, while the raspberry jam slowly drips down his forehead like a macabre stream of blood.
Liam, his right-hand man, rushes in, his face marked by urgency and concern.
However, upon seeing his boss with cake-covered hair, an involuntary laugh escapes his lips, though he tries to maintain a serious expression.
"Boss, we have an emergency," he announces, trying to regain his composure, though his tone betrays a barely concealed amusement.
Samuel wipes his face with a handkerchief, but the cake's cream seems to have irreversibly taken over his hair.
"What is it this time?"
"I hope it's really, and I mean really, a big problem" he growls, trying to keep his anger in check.
"I lost my cake, and it cost me dearly."
Liam steps forward, holding back a smile. In his hands is a crumpled envelope.
"I've received another letter from the Clown" he says in a much more serious tone, trying to steer the focus back to the real issue.
The Clown is none other than Enigma, the criminal Samuel had tried to capture, but that his capture had proved a total failure.
The media wasted no time tearing his reputation apart, making this the first stain on his career.
By now, to Samuel, Enigma was no longer an adversary to fear, but a ridiculous caricature, a sort of circus buffoon.