Alan had barely slept since the email arrived confirming he'd been selected and approved for the Junior Legal Intern position at a major corporation.

It was the opportunity he needed. The heavens seemed to have finally heard his prayers — even though he was an atheist.

He picked his best outfit, a suit he'd owned for about two years, and adjusted the tie as well as he could. He hated wearing those clothes, but it was the work uniform, so he didn't have a choice.

He grabbed his backpack, his wallet, his keys, and of course his faithful companion — the cane.

Alan arrived at the building a few minutes before the scheduled time. The sound of automatic doors opening, the echo of hurried footsteps in the lobby, and the expensive perfume of dozens of strangers composed a scene he could only imagine.

His fingers tightened around the cane's grip as he tried to control his nerves. It was his first day, and this opportunity meant more than just an internship.

After years of being told he could never compete on equal footing with other people, he finally had a chance to prove otherwise.

A receptionist led him to the elevator and explained how the building's floors were organized. Alan thanked her with a polite smile and carefully memorized every detail. He was determined to make a good impression. This internship was the opportunity he'd been waiting for during years, and he had no intention of wasting it.

The problems started less than an hour later. The moment he walked into the legal department, he noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere. Conversations died for a few seconds, then gave way to whispers he had no trouble identifying.

"So that's him?" he heard someone ask.

"The blind intern?" another voice added.

"I can't believe they hired someone like that for legal."

Alan pretended not to hear. He was used to it. From school through college and into practically every new environment he'd ever entered, there was always someone ready to judge him before even knowing him. He sat at his desk and began organizing the digital documents they'd sent him. The screen reader narrated everything through his earbuds while he took notes and familiarized himself with the company's procedures.

Across the room, some colleagues kept watching and commenting.

"Bet he got hired through the disability quota."

"Must be a huge hassle... Imagine having to help him all the time."

Alan kept his attention on the work. He ignored the comments, even though every word stung. He'd learned long ago that responding rarely made things better. Most of the time, it just gave people exactly the reaction they were looking for.

The provocations started subtly. An object moved from its place. A chair appeared a few centimeters out of its usual position. Comments surfaced whenever they thought he couldn't hear. Nothing serious enough to justify a formal complaint, but enough to create a constant undercurrent of discomfort.

Shortly before lunch, he was tasked with organizing folders for a legal meeting. He separated everything carefully at his side and continued working. When he reached for them a few minutes later, they had simply vanished.

Alan frowned. He ran his hand across the desk. Nothing. He checked the space around him. Nothing. Then he heard a few stifled laughs and understood immediately what had happened.

They were hiding his things again.

His jaw clenched. For a few seconds, the familiar mix of rage and humiliation pressed against his chest. It never stopped hurting, no matter how many times it happened. Still, he refused to give his colleagues the satisfaction of watching him lose his composure.

He stood and began searching. He moved calmly, guided by his memory of the space, by the position of the desks, and by the cane. The laughter continued, though it grew less confident as time went on. After a few minutes, he found the folders hidden behind a cabinet.

The silence that followed was almost embarrassing.

Alan simply retrieved the documents and returned to his desk. He didn't accuse anyone. He didn't complain. He didn't demand an explanation. He just picked up exactly where he'd left off, as if nothing had happened.

But the feeling of being tested lingered through the rest of the morning — as if those people were waiting for the moment he'd finally crack and give them a reason to say he didn't belong there.

Alan had no intention of giving them that satisfaction.

He tried to push through the rest of the morning as if nothing had happened, but the sensation of being watched never faded. Even when the atmosphere seemed calmer, he still noticed small shifts in behavior around him, as though his colleagues were waiting for a reaction that never came. When he was told to deliver some documents to the executive floor, he accepted without hesitation.

The elevator was more crowded than he would have liked when he reached the lobby. People flowed in and out in a constant stream, talking about meetings and deadlines. Alan waited for a lull in the traffic before stepping in, positioning himself near one of the walls. The enclosed space amplified every sound, forcing him to pay even closer attention to the movement around him.

That's when he felt a hard impact against his shoulder.

The blow was enough to knock him off-balance for a moment, and the folder he was holding slipped from his hands, hitting the floor with a flat slap. The pages scattered immediately across the corridor, nudged along by the hurried footsteps of people still passing by.

"Watch where you're going," said a male voice, low and full of impatience.

Alan took a deep breath before answering, trying to hold on to the composure he'd been maintaining all day.

"You're the one who bumped into me, sir."

The silence that followed was immediate. Some people slowed their pace; others simply stopped. The tension in the air thickened, as if everyone around them had realized the situation could easily escalate.

"And you think you can correct me," the same voice responded, closer now.

Alan frowned, crouching to start gathering the papers.

"I'm just saying what happened."

Before he could reach some of the sheets, he heard the sound of someone else crouching as well. The presence beside him carried an authority that was hard to ignore.

"Leave it," the man said.

"I don't need help," Alan replied automatically.

"I wasn't asking."

The response came dry, with no room for argument. Alan hesitated for a second — not out of fear, but at the strangeness of that kind of direct imposition in such a simple situation. Still, he continued collecting the documents in silence, feeling the other person doing the same beside him.

When they finished, the folder was placed back in his hands.

For one brief instant, their fingers touched. It was quick, almost insignificant, but it left a strange sensation in the air — hard to identify, impossible to ignore.

"Thank you," Alan said, standing up.

"Hm." That was the only response.

The man walked away with firm, precise steps — unhurried, but with a presence that seemed to rearrange the space around him. The sound faded down the corridor until it disappeared completely.

That's when the whispers started.

"I can't believe he talked to him like that..."

"That was not a good idea."

"He has no clue..."

Alan turned his head slightly toward the voices.

"Who was that?" he asked, with a calm that didn't quite match his obvious curiosity.

There was a brief hesitation before someone answered.

"The president of the company."

Alan's stomach dropped for an instant — not from intimidation, but from the belated realization that he had just confronted, unknowingly, the most important person in the building.

He rubbed a hand over his face and let out a quiet sigh.

"Great... What a first day."

Meanwhile, on the top floor, the president was back in his usual domain, but clearly less focused than before. The meetings around him continued — documents presented, decisions discussed — yet his attention kept circling back to the same point. Not to the fact that he'd been challenged by an employee, let alone an intern, but to the way it had happened.

There had been no hesitation in the young man's voice. No attempt to soften what he was saying. No automatic reflex to agree with everything just to avoid trouble. When Rodolpho accused him of not paying attention to where he was going, the young man simply stated that it had been the other way around. Without raising his voice, without showing nervousness, and without the slightest concern for making a good impression.

It shouldn't have mattered. Employees came and went from this company every day, and Rodolpho rarely remembered them after a few minutes. Yet for some reason, this encounter kept occupying space in his thoughts.

Maybe because he was too accustomed to people measuring every word in his presence. Maybe because most employees seemed more worried about impressing him than about saying what they actually thought. Or maybe because that intern simply hadn't shown any of those concerns.

The memory of the whispers that had broken out right afterward didn't help either. It was clear the young man had already drawn attention from part of the department, though Rodolpho didn't know exactly why.

In the end, it was irrelevant. There were contracts to review, meetings to wrap up, and far more important problems demanding his attention.

But every now and then, the memory of the collision — of their fingers touching — and of what he'd taken for a touch of insolence from the young man crept back into his mind.

"What the hell," he muttered.

Then someone knocked at his door.

"Come in."

It was Helena, his secretary, bringing documents that needed his signature before being dispatched.

"How are the new interns doing?" he asked, as casually as he could manage.

Helena was caught off guard at first. Rodolpho wasn't the type to take an interest in that kind of thing.

"They seem to be doing fine, sir..."

He stopped signing and fixed his gaze on her.

"But..."

She inhaled deeply.

"There's one of the interns who's been getting targeted by the staff... I don't really know the details, to be honest, but it seems like they're taking advantage of his condition."

"What condition?"

"He's blind."

Could it be? Rodolpho wondered, trying to recall whether the young man he'd bumped into had been blind, but without success. He finished signing the documents and handed them back to the secretary.

"Send me the files on the new interns," he said, just as Helena was leaving the office.

As soon as he received the files, he searched through the employee photos, and the first one that appeared was the young man from earlier.

Well, well. How interesting, he thought as his eyes scanned the personnel file of Alan Eduardo Porto.

By the end of that day — which had felt like it lasted an entire week — Alan was already prepared to stop by HR and have his dismissal processed on day one.

But it didn't happen. Which was a relief, accompanied by the far less encouraging feeling that he'd boarded a one-way ride straight to hell.

The world had always made it clear that he needed to earn his place on his own. It used to be easier, back when he'd had his mother. She had pushed forward after his father abandoned them.

Juliana hustled, picked up odd jobs, did whatever she could to take care of her sons — Alan and Gael. Alan was born with sight, but before his first birthday, an accident left him permanently blind. Juliana cried and grieved for months, but then she faced the reality that she needed to accept it and help her son move forward.

Gael was born twelve years later, and within the first week after his birth, their father left. Alan was thirteen.

In the years that followed, Alan understood how fiercely his mother had fought for them — and how deeply she'd blamed herself, both for his blindness and the hardships it brought, and for the struggles they all faced.

The people around them didn't help either, making comments about how she hadn't taken proper care of Alan, about how she'd let him go blind, and on top of that, left the younger brother under his responsibility. But she had no choice if she wanted to work and keep her boys fed.

Even so, the three of them were happy. They celebrated birthdays modestly and invented something to commemorate whenever they could. When Alan was accepted with a full scholarship to law school, Juliana cried hard — but from pride.

The road had been brutal, but together they were making it through — until a tragedy changed their plans, and the ground opened up beneath Alan's feet.

Now, looking back, Alan had trouble pinpointing exactly when his life had gone off the rails. Maybe because the most devastating changes rarely happened all at once. They arrived silently, stripping away one certainty at a time until, by the time you noticed, everything you'd known had already disappeared.

There were moments he preferred not to remember. Interrupted conversations, promises that could never be kept, and decisions no young person should ever have to make. Some memories remained so vivid that the smallest detail was enough to bring them crashing back at full force.

That was why this job meant more than a salary or a career opportunity. While other employees worried about promotions, recognition, or prestige, Alan had far more urgent reasons for being there.

He needed this position. He needed to prove he was capable of taking on responsibilities and demonstrate that he could provide stability.

And more than that, he needed to show people who didn't even know him that he was perfectly capable of taking care of someone. So failing was not an option.

Maybe that was why the hostile behavior from his coworkers bothered him less than it should have. The jokes, the snide remarks, and the obstacles placed in his path were unpleasant, but they didn't come close to what was actually at stake.

Because at the end of it all, it wasn't just his own future that depended on this job. It was his only chance to recover something that had been ripped away from him.

And Alan was willing to endure hell as many times as it took to make that happen.

When Rodolpho arrived at his penthouse, he couldn't quite leave the office behind.

Why the fuck can't I stop thinking about that kid? And he's blind, on top of it... He took a sip of whisky, grabbed his phone, and texted a male escort who regularly did jobs for him.

The guy showed up quickly.

"You're tense," the young man commented, massaging Rodolpho's shoulders.

"That's why you're here," Rodolpho replied curtly.

The young man didn't seem bothered. He positioned himself between Rodolpho's legs and began sucking him off. His movements were rhythmic and professional, drawing groans from the CEO.

When the licking and sucking grew more intense and Rodolpho was approaching the peak, he glanced down at the man in front of him — and saw Alan instead. He had to blink several times to dispel the illusion, losing the mood instantly.

He tried to fuck, but that didn't work either.

"I don't know what happened... This is the first time... You know..."

"Hell! I went soft! What happened to me? And why am I justifying myself to him?"

"Yeah, I know, but there's always a first time — isn't that what they say?"

Rodolpho shot him a look, but said nothing. They'd known each other long enough that a certain familiarity existed between them.

"What are you staring at?" Rodolpho asked, irritated.

"Did something happen at the company today?"

Rodolpho rolled his eyes. What does one thing have to do with the other?

"No. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Pablo laughed.

"You sure about that?"

Rodolpho poured a glass of whisky for himself and another for Pablo.

"I bumped into an intern..."

"And?"

"He's blind..."

Pablo wore a mix of mischief and amusement on his face.

"No way! You're fantasizing about your own employee, Rodolfito?"

"Of course not! Are you insane?" Rodolpho fired back, his voice climbing a notch above normal — which only confirmed Pablo's suspicions.

He walked to the enormous glass window of the penthouse, staring out at the city lights to avoid the young man's gaze. Pablo took a sip of whisky, savoring both the expensive drink and the CEO's obvious denial.

"Rodolfito, you called me over here, went soft halfway through, and now you're defending your honor like a teenager. The diagnosis is clear: this intern got under your skin."

"He didn't get under my skin," Rodolpho hissed, his fingers tightening around the crystal glass.

"Sure..." Pablo rose from the sofa and walked slowly toward Rodolpho. He stopped beside him, looking out at the same horizon of illuminated buildings. "And since when does the great Rodolpho fail in bed? You're a machine, sweetheart."

Rodolpho let out a bitter laugh, but Pablo's argument landed a direct hit on his ego. He didn't fail. Never. The humiliation from minutes ago still burned in his chest, mixed with an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability.

"He's just a kid, Pablo."

Pablo smiled — but this time without mockery. There was a spark of genuine interest, and even a faint hint of pity, in his eyes. He set the empty glass on the coffee table and gathered his clothes from where they lay scattered across the plush carpet.

"Well, my work here is done for today. Looks like my services have been canceled by forces beyond my control," Pablo said, buttoning his dress shirt with the ease of someone who knew the routine. "A piece of advice from someone who deals with human desire all day, Rodolpho: don't fight the current. If this kid knocked you off balance without even touching you, the problem isn't him. It's what he woke up in there... Maybe he's 'your guy.'"

Rodolpho didn't respond. He just grabbed his wallet, pulled out a generous amount of cash — well above the usual fee — and held it out. Pablo preferred physical cash, which he later deposited into off-the-books accounts. A way to avoid income tax, since it was difficult to confirm where the money came from.

"For your time," the CEO said, dry.

"Thanks. And good luck." Pablo winked, grabbed his jacket, and walked to the penthouse door, leaving Rodolpho completely alone with the silence of the apartment, the rest of his whisky, and the persistent image of Alan burned into his thoughts.