The scent of polished chrome and ozone hit Tymon Nowak like a physical wall the moment the platinum-paneled elevator doors hissed open. He clutched the worn leather strap of his field bag tighter, the familiar heft of millet spray and foraging blocks offering scant comfort against the dizzying height of the Chimera Spire’s penthouse. Even the air felt filtered, too clean, like a laboratory designed for something far more complex than human respiration. He smoothed the front of his only decent button-down shirt, a pale blue affair that felt far too casual for the rarefied atmosphere. His interview confirmation email had been cryptic, simply stating a ‘unique behavioral consultation’ for a ‘high-value asset.’ Tymon, whose usual clients were enthusiastic parakeet owners in need of squawk-reduction techniques or fledgling pigeon fanciers, had dismissed the ‘high-value asset’ as corporate jargon. Now, standing on a floor that shimmered with an almost invisible sheen, he understood it was less jargon and more a declaration of another world entirely. A woman materialized from a corridor that seemed to be entirely made of glass. Her silhouette was sharp, framed by the late afternoon sun glinting off the distant Vistula. She moved with the predatory grace of a high-efficiency machine, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, geometric bun that offered no softness. Zofia Orlecka. The name, whispered with reverence and a healthy dose of fear in the city’s tech circles, finally had a face. And what a face it was: chiseled cheekbones, eyes the color of a winter sky, and a mouth set in a line so precise it could have been drawn with a ruler. “Mr. Nowak?” Her voice was low, resonant, like a cello string plucked in a soundproof room. “You’re early.” Tymon’s cheeks warmed. “I… I prefer to be punctual, Ms. Orlecka. Especially for a first appointment.” His voice, usually steady when discussing flight patterns or avian diets, felt reedy and uncertain in the vast, echoing space. She didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink. “Punctuality is a baseline expectation, not a virtue to be lauded, Mr. Nowak. Follow me.” She turned on her heel, her tailored suit jacket rippling with the movement. Tymon stumbled to keep pace, his gaze darting across the minimalist living space. Every surface was immaculate, every object meticulously placed. A single, enormous ficus tree stood in a gleaming silver planter near a panoramic window, its leaves a startling splash of green in the otherwise monochromatic palette. It felt less like a home and more like a museum exhibit dedicated to the concept of ‘less is more’ taken to its extreme. They stopped before a set of opaque doors that slid open silently as Zofia approached, revealing a blast of humid air and the riotous colors of a tropical jungle. Tymon blinked, momentarily disoriented. Orchids dripped from suspended branches, ferns unfurled in impossible shades of green, and the air thrummed with the chirps and rustles of unseen life. In the center, perched regally on a thick, gnarled branch, was a Hyacinth Macaw. Its feathers were a dazzling cobalt, its eyes ringed with brilliant yellow. It was breathtaking, majestic, and seemed to regard them with an air of profound boredom. “This is Byt,” Zofia stated, gesturing dismissively at the magnificent bird. “My legacy.” Byt let out a piercing squawk that reverberated through the enclosure. Tymon felt a surge of professional appreciation. “He’s magnificent, Ms. Orlecka. A true specimen. How old is he?” “Old enough to understand a considerable amount,” Zofia replied, her gaze fixed on the macaw. “Mr. Nowak, I am dying.” The words hung in the humid air, heavy and incongruous. Tymon’s carefully constructed professional composure wavered. He stared at her, then back at Byt, then back at her. “I… I beg your pardon?” “A rare, hereditary condition,” she elaborated, her voice devoid of emotion, as if discussing quarterly earnings. “My doctors have given me, at best, a few months.” Tymon’s mouth felt suddenly dry. Compassion, a force far more potent than his usual shyness, began to stir within him. “Ms. Orlecka, I’m so incredibly sorry to hear that. Is there… anything I can do?” Her winter-sky eyes finally met his. “There is. I need Byt to deliver my last will and testament.” Tymon swallowed. “Deliver… it? Physically? Like, carry a scroll?” The absurdity of the request was so profound, so utterly bizarre, that it momentarily eclipsed the shock of her earlier pronouncement. “No, Mr. Nowak. Recite it. Verbatim. In my voice. Flawlessly.” Zofia’s tone left no room for interpretation. “To my board members, to my family, to the world. It will be the ultimate statement.” Tymon’s mind raced, trying to process this. Teaching a parrot to mimic specific phrases was one thing, but an entire legal document? In another person’s voice? It was an unprecedented challenge. “With all due respect, Ms. Orlecka, that’s… highly ambitious. Parrots are capable of remarkable vocalizations, yes, but to capture human intonation and rhythm for an extended period, particularly legal jargon… It would require immense dedication, and even then, there are no guarantees.” Zofia merely raised an eyebrow. “Guarantees are for the risk-averse, Mr. Nowak. I require results. You will train Byt to flawlessly recite my will. The compensation will be… commensurate with the unique nature of the task.” Before Tymon could fully absorb the implications of this, a harsh, familiar voice echoed through the enclosure. “You’re fired.” Tymon spun around. Byt, with a disconcertingly human tilt of his head, was staring directly at the ficus plant in the minimalist living room, visible through the threshold. The words had been delivered with Zofia’s exact cadence, her precise, cold intonation. The cadence was identical down to the crisp final consonant. He looked at Zofia, whose expression remained entirely unreadable. “An old habit,” she explained, a flicker of something almost like pride in her eyes. “He’s quite adept at picking up phrases he finds… impactful.” Impactful. Tymon could only imagine the executives Byt had silently watched Zofia dismiss. The hairs on Tymon's forearms stood up. This bird was not merely mimicking; it was *performing*. Zofia stepped back from the glass threshold, moving towards a sleek, obsidian-colored credenza built into the wall. She retrieved a heavy, cream-colored envelope, sealed with a wax impression of a stylized phoenix. She held it out to him. “This contains the full details of my condition, including prognoses and genetic markers,” she said, her voice dropping low, though still clear in the hushed apartment. “It is for your eyes only, Mr. Nowak. To be opened… when the time comes. I believe you will find it motivates you.” Tymon took the envelope. It was surprisingly warm. The words ‘DO NOT OPEN UNTIL THE END’ were stamped across the front in stark, black letters. He felt a profound, almost dizzying sense of responsibility settle upon him. This wasn’t just a job; it was a race against time, a final act of devotion for a dying woman. His non-confrontational nature, usually a hindrance, morphed into a quiet resolve. He would not fail her. He would make this happen, no matter how absurd. “I understand, Ms. Orlecka,” Tymon said, his voice surprisingly firm. “I accept.” Zofia gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. “Good. My assistant will coordinate your access. Begin immediately.” She then turned and walked away, her footsteps silent on the polished floor, leaving Tymon alone in the cavernous penthouse, the sealed medical file feeling like a lead weight in his hand. Byt, perched on his branch, swiveled his head slowly, his intelligent yellow eyes fixing on Tymon. The macaw seemed to be assessing him, weighing his worth, perhaps even considering his inevitable termination. The glass panels slid shut with a soft click, enclosing Tymon in the humid silence. Byt tilted his head again, then, in Zofia’s clipped timbre, clear and cold, he spoke. “The legacy of Chimera Innovations rests on you, Mr. Nowak. Don’t fail me.”

The Executor with Feathers