Part 1The Price of a Parking Place

I bought a designated parking spot at my company's garage for convenience, only to have a shameless colleague occupy it every single day.

After multiple failed attempts at communication, I gave up, sold my car, and started taking the subway.

My world became peaceful.

Until a week later, when I received a call from property management. "Hello, the car that's been parking in your spot has been keyed something awful. The owner is raising hell with us. We were hoping you could..."

I hung up the phone, feeling nothing but a profound sense of satisfaction.

* * *

The sharp, insistent dial tone was cut short.

The world was suddenly quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner. I tossed my phone onto my desk, the cold plastic of the end-call button still a phantom touch on my fingertip. Inside my chest, however, a long-suppressed current of warmth was finally surging through me, a pleasant heat spreading to every limb.

It felt good.

I leaned back in my chair and let out a long, slow breath. The tension that had been coiling in my gut for over a month finally released its grip. Through the blinds, slivers of sunlight cast bright patches on my desk; even the dust motes dancing in the air seemed to be celebrating. The nightmare of the past month, a relentless, frustrating ordeal, was finally showing signs of ending.

It all started with that damned parking spot.

When my company moved to a new office building, parking became a daily battle. To avoid the morning rush-hour scramble and to ensure I could leave immediately after work, I gritted my teeth and spent a significant chunk of my savings on a permanent, designated spot in the company's private garage. The day I got the deed, I felt a sense of profound stability. That small rectangle of concrete was my personal haven in the chaotic city.

I never imagined that this bastion of convenience would become the source of all my problems.

Leo White, a new colleague, became the living embodiment of my nightmare.

The very first day he started, I found his brand-new white SUV parked in my spot. It was parked aggressively, nose-out, practically kissing the back wall, perfectly consuming the entire space. My own car was left stranded in the aisle, waiting for a temporary spot to open up.

At the time, I assumed it was an honest mistake. He was new, unfamiliar with the layout. Being a reasonably civilized professional, I didn't make a scene. I just took out a sticky note and wrote a polite message.

Hi, this is a private spot. Please refrain from parking here. Thank you.

I stuck it carefully on his driver-side window, a place he couldn't miss but that wouldn't damage the paint. I even felt a little proud of myself for handling it with such grace and consideration.

Looking back now, I was laughably naive.

The next morning, when I drove into the garage, the white SUV was still there, unmoved. The sun couldn't penetrate the gloom of the underground garage, but my temper was already starting to heat up. My carefully worded note was gone, vanished as if it had never existed. My polite reminder had been treated like a silent, odorless fart—released and forgotten.

I found Leo in the company breakroom, holding a cup of coffee and laughing with other colleagues. When he saw me approach, he plastered on an overly familiar smile.

"Hey, Jenna! What's up?"

I fought to keep my voice even. "Leo, are you parked in my spot? B-07?"

His smile didn't waver. It was infuriatingly casual. "Oh, yeah, I saw it was empty so I grabbed it. What's the problem?"

His breezy attitude was like a needle, expertly puncturing my forced calm. "It's my private spot. I left a note for you yesterday."

"Huh? You did? I didn't see it," he said with an exaggerated blink, then waved his hand dismissively. "Whoops, my bad. I'll pay attention next time. Anyway, you found a spot today, right? No big deal."

I stared at his grinning face, my fists clenching at my sides. What did he mean, "You found a spot"? I had spent an extra twenty minutes circling the garage like a shark, finally wedging my car into a remote corner, nearly making myself late. And he'd reduced my frustration to a flippant "no big deal."

A fire was building in my throat. I wanted to scream, but we were surrounded by colleagues. The last shred of my professional decorum held me back. "I need you to stop parking there. It's a huge inconvenience for me," I said, my voice turning icy.

"Yeah, yeah, got it. Next time, for sure," he said, waving me off before turning back to his conversation.

But "next time" never came.

The third day, the fourth day, for an entire week, that white SUV stood like a monument in my parking spot every single morning. My feelings evolved from confusion to annoyance, and finally, to a humiliating rage that grew like a weed in my heart. Every evening, I'd drag my exhausted body back to the garage and begin the scavenger hunt for an overnight spot. And every time I passed B-07 and saw that space—my space—so casually occupied, I felt my grip on the steering wheel tighten until my knuckles turned white. In the dim garage lighting, his white SUV was a glaring symbol of my powerlessness.

I finally understood. For a shameless, overgrown man-child like Leo, kindness and communication were utterly useless.