I took a shower. Shaved. Put on the suit.
Looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the man staring back.
But at least I looked human.
That night, I signed my release forms. They didn't argue.
I was too quiet, too calm, too cold, just how they liked me.
I was a machine. A malfunctioning one, at best.
What scared me most wasn't the pain. It was the quiet. The stillness. The way everyone treated me like I was fragile now—something broken beyond repair.
But I didn't need kindness.
I needed someone to see me. To hate me, maybe. Spit in my face. Remind me I was still here. I needed rage. Fire. Something.
Because nothing felt worse than nothing. And no one ever looked at me the way Ivan did.
No one ever would.
And maybe… maybe I deserved that.
...
The first time I stepped into the Roman high-rise, something inside me recoiled. The air smelled like polished marble and legacy. It smelled like him. My father.
