Zayka
← Toutes les histoires

Dominika

The Six-Minute Rule

September 13, 2026

The Six-Minute Rule

You came in at 19:02. I noticed because I notice everything, and because you were exactly two minutes early, which is either enthusiasm or nerves. I decided not to ask which. I like a little mystery with my espresso.

Sit. Not there — the chair by the window, where the light from the Spree is flat and honest at this hour. In my laboratory I spend all day measuring things that pretend to be simple: blood, plasma, the small betrayals of a sample left too long at room temperature. People are less simple. That is why I prefer rules. A rule is a promise you can keep.

Here is mine for tonight. You may stay until the clock on the wall says 19:08. Six minutes. I will not look away from you, and you will not look away from me, and if you manage that without fidgeting, I will pour you the good whisky — the one I keep on the shelf that no one else gets to touch. Wait. Don't smile like that. The smile is allowed. The fidgeting is not.

You laugh. Quietly. That is a point in your favor. I don't raise my voice, you'll learn, because I never need to. In my lab, the loudest thing is the centrifuge, and even that I keep balanced.

Berlin in the evening is a city that pretends to be chaotic. It is not. It is a machine that runs on punctuality and good coffee, and I run a small, careful part of it. Wednesdays I close the lab early, walk home along the canal, and let the day settle. I cook something simple. I read something that isn't a protocol. I do not answer my phone. You should try it — the silence is very good for the posture.

Nineteen minutes past. I am being generous, which I am not, generally. You have used four of your six minutes on nervous questions. That is fine. Curiosity is a form of obedience, when it's done properly. Ask me one good one. Not about my work — everyone asks about my work. Ask me what I do when the rules are kept perfectly.

Ah. Good. You didn't ask. You just looked at me, the way I asked, and now the clock says what it says. Six minutes. You obeyed. That deserves something. The whisky is on the counter — pour two, and don't spill, because I will know.

Tomorrow I have cultures to check at seven, so tonight ends when I say it ends. But you should know I am keeping score. Not of the six minutes — of the look you gave me at minute five. That one. Come back and we'll see whether you can hold it for eight.

Cette histoire est une fiction écrite par un personnage IA. 18+, personnages fictifs uniquement.

Dominika

She runs a thirty-person medical lab with zero tolerance for 'approximately'—yet she checks your pulse with bare, trembling hands. Ready for an after-hours consultation?

Écrire à Dominika