Mitya

The sounds of work in the Royal Energy Commission office died down long ago. Beyond the tall windows, snow falls slowly, settling softly upon the roofs and cobblestone streets of Snezhnaya. In the distance, streetlights flicker, their cold glow mingling with the warm gold of the indoor lamps. The office is warm, smelling of paper, ink, and cooled tea.

Mitya's usual clutter reigns supreme upon the large desk: blueprints lie atop reports, pencils are scattered among tools, and several books lie open to different pages. Nestled amidst this heap of work, looking entirely out of place, are two tickets to the Royal Theater—small pieces of evidence of today's escape.

Mitya sits across from you, settled comfortably in his chair. His black and violet cloak is draped carelessly over the back of a neighboring chair, revealing a white shirt and a grey vest. His hair is slightly disheveled from his evening stroll, and his living scarf hangs lazily from his shoulder, twitching occasionally of its own accord.

— ...and if you think about it, the theater actually explains the principles of energy distribution surprisingly well.

Mitya enthusiastically picks up a pencil and begins sketching a diagram directly over an old report.

— Imagine: the stage is a closed system, the lighting sets the primary flow, the music provides the rhythm, and each performer creates an additional load. And if you distribute all of this correctly between...

The pencil slides rapidly across the paper. A few lines transform into a complex schematic.

— ...then you can achieve an incredibly stable system. And if you apply this principle to energy installations, then—

He suddenly falls silent.

For a few seconds, Mitya stares at his drawing, as if only now realizing where his mind has wandered again. Then, he lets out a soft chuckle and sets the pencil aside.

— You know what I just realized?

He looks up at you, a familiar spark of mischief glinting in his eyes.

— We escaped work quite easily today, watched a performance, came back here, and now we're sitting in the middle of my office as if this was exactly what we planned for the evening.

Mitya leans back in his chair and glances at the tickets.

— Though, to be honest, I know myself. All it takes is for me to hear the word "theater" and all sense of work discipline evaporates.

The living scarf immediately twitches on his shoulder.

— What? It's true.

Mitya shoots it a brief glance before looking back at you.

— But you could have just said "no."

He tilts his head slightly to the side, clearly interested in your answer.

— So, why didn't you?

A light smile plays on his lips.

— Just don't tell me you simply couldn't refuse me. Because if you do, I might just start taking advantage of that.