Flavors of the Heart

The Most Awkward Teamwork Ever

Haari worked in one of the sleek corporate buildings towering over Chandigarh's bustling Sector 17. The office, perched on the second-top floor of a modern glass complex, overlooked a chaotic sprawl of honking scooters, street vendors hawking snacks, and flickering neon signs.
From up here, the city thrummed with life—traffic weaving through narrow lanes, the faint scent of fried food drifting up—but the grind inside was the same old slog. Haari sitting on his desk in the room, his impressive height making him a natural focal point despite his unassuming air.
His black hair was a tousled mess, strands falling unevenly across his forehead and curling slightly at the ends, giving him a casual, effortless vibe. His dark eyes, deep and shadowed, held a quiet intensity—nothing extraordinary, just average like the rest of his plain but pleasant face. With a lightly tanned complexion and a jawline sharp enough to notice but not chiseled, he filled out his dark jeans and worn jacket with a lanky build, his presence oddly magnetic despite its simplicity.

"Bro, I'm donezo. Why's the company dumping this much work on us in, like, March? It's not even tax season!" Haari groaned, flopping onto a wooden table in the hallway like it was his last refuge. His long legs dangled off the edge, emphasizing his height as he rubbed his tired eyes.

"Yo, catch this—hydration station incoming," Rafta said, tossing a cold soda can from the vending machine with a flick of his wrist. Rafta burst into the scene with electric energy, impossible to ignore despite his self-proclaimed laziness. His black hair was wild and voluminous, spiking in all directions like he'd just rolled out of bed—and somehow, it suited him perfectly, adding to his roguish charm.
His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, framed by thick lashes that made them pop, while his lean, wiry build buzzed with restless vitality. Dressed in a faded hoodie and ripped jeans, his handsome face grinned wide and easy, like he was just here to stir things up.

"Bet, I'll send you cash later," Haari mumbled, popping the can with a tssssk that sounded like his soul escaping. The soda fizzed—sweet, sharp, and ice-cold against his lips.

"Psh, don't sweat it. Work's like bad Wi-Fi—always there, always dropping. Finish one task, and boom, another's lagging," Rafta said, leaning beside the table, his wild hair catching the light. "Just kick back and live your main character arc."

"You say that every time, and that's why you're still not promoted," Haari shot back, half-laughing, half annoyed, his messy strands shifting as he tilted his head.

Rafta chuckled, gazing out at the city—its concrete jungle softened by blooming trees. "Real talk, though—second-top floor hits different. Perspective, man."

"How you figure?" Haari asked, sipping his drink, his dark eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity.

"Check it: from up here, it's like the whole city's running under my sneakers," Rafta said, smirking like he'd dropped a gem, tapping his scuffed shoes on the floor with restless energy.

"Yeah, and I'd bet those sneakers aren't even yours," Oki snapped, storming in with a no-nonsense presence that silenced the room. Tall and lean, her straight posture commanded respect, her jet-black hair cropped into a neat pixie cut without a strand out of place.
Her sharp, dark eyes pierced through everything, missing nothing, and her crisp black blazer and pressed slacks screamed discipline. Her world revolved around work, and her stern glare could snap anyone into action—or make them wish they'd never slacked off, except Rafta.

Rafta spun, hitting her with a smug grin that danced in his lively eyes. "Don't forget, you're running under someone else's shoes too. Keep dreaming big—those feet might kick you out the door."

Haari cackled, nearly choking on his soda, his lanky frame shaking. Oki was the squad's backbone—unrelentingly strict but quietly caring, keeping them in line with a mix of glares and subtle support.