The meeting room door shut behind Faqair with a muted click, sealing away the noise and energy he'd endured inside. He exhaled long and slow, rolling his shoulders as he made his way down the hall. The cool air of the lobby brushed against his skin, carrying with it the faint scent of printer ink and citrus cleaner.
A crooked smile tugged slowly at his lips as he pushed through the revolving doors and stepped outside.
"Those two…" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head with an amused sigh. "Flirting that openly? Anyone walking past would think they're in love."
He slipped his hands into his pockets and set off toward the small café across the street — his sanctuary, or at least his caffeine provider. The afternoon sun warmed the pavement, glinting off parked cars and the glass facade of the company building behind him.
He was halfway across the crosswalk when a familiar figure approached from the opposite direction. Faqair slowed instinctively.
Nabeel.
But not the Nabeel he remembered. One side of the man's face was swollen, a blotchy mix of red and purple. His jaw looked slightly stiff, as if every movement came with a sting.
Faqair blinked once. Then, unexpectedly — helplessly — laughter burst out of him. A sharp, surprised sound. It echoed embarrassingly loud in the quiet street.
Nabeel stopped, and fixed him with an irritated glare.
"Sorry—" Faqair tried, though laughter still escaped between breaths. "It's just—your face—look at you. You look… too funny right now."
Nabeel's scowl deepened, his voice tired and edged with temper. "I'm not in the mood to talk. We'll talk later."
Faqair straightened, schooling his expression into something vaguely polite. "You didn't recognize me? It's me — Faqair. Inaya's friend."
"I remember," Nabeel muttered darkly. "Just don't mention her. She's gone mad."
Faqair's eye twitched, and he murmured under his breath, just soft enough to pretend it wasn't heard: "She was mad back then, choosing a donkey like you… but she's fine now."
Nabeel snapped his head up. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Faqair said smoothly, a faint smirk ghosting across his mouth. "So… what happened?"
Nabeel sighed, shoulders slumping. "We broke up."
Faqair's lips immediately twitched upward before he caught himself. "That's great—"
He coughed. "I mean… did she do that to your face?"
Nabeel stiffened. "Yeah. A girl punched me."
Faqair lowered his gaze, eyes narrowing just slightly, measuring him. Still thinking girls are weak? he thought. She should've hit the other cheek too.
"I could've fought back," Nabeel continued defensively, "but I didn't want to make a scene."
There it was — the fragile ego, patched together with fake righteousness.
"Here for coffee?" Faqair asked, tone deceptively light.
"Yeah." Nabeel scrubbed a hand through his hair, annoyed. "I shouldn't ruin my day even more because of a stupid girl like her. I just need coffee."
Faqair's expression went completely still.
A chill threaded through the warm afternoon as he took one slow, deliberate step forward.
Before Nabeel could react, Faqair's hand shot out, gripping his collar and pulling him close. The fabric bunched under his fingers.
"Manners?" he said, voice low and sharp, the word slicing the air.
Nabeel stiffened. "What the hell are you doing? Let go!"
"'Stupid'?" Faqair repeated, his tone colder than the breeze sweeping the sidewalk. "Is that how you talk about someone?"
"Does it concern you?" Nabeel snapped.
"It does." Faqair's jaw tightened. "She's my friend. And even if she weren't, I still wouldn't tolerate this."
Nabeel's eyes flared in defiance. "I said let go!"
Faqair let go.
Only to step back, pivot on one heel, and deliver a clean, precise punch to Nabeel's untouched cheek.
The impact echoed — a dull, decisive thud — before Nabeel crashed onto the pavement with a strangled groan.
"Are you insane!?" Nabeel wheezed, clutching his now perfectly matching cheeks.
Faqair crouched down in front of him, calm, composed, almost gentle in the way he tilted Nabeel's chin up between two fingers, examining the damage as though evaluating a piece of art.
"Now it looks even," he said coolly. "You can tell anyone a man did this one. Honestly, I wanted to do it the moment I saw you, but you already looked too pitiful. Guess you only understand this language."
Nabeel glared up at him, breath ragged. "You'll pay for this."
Faqair rose to his full height and dusted off his sleeves. He adjusted his cuff buttons like he had just straightened a slightly crooked tie, not assaulted someone in broad daylight.
"You ruined my good mood," he said simply. "Now I don't even feel like getting coffee."
He paused, looking down at the man crumpled on the pavement. His voice dropped, cold as steel.
"And one more thing — stay away from Inaya. If I see you anywhere near her again…"
A beat of silence.
"…you'll regret it. Understood?"
He turned without waiting for an answer.
Each step was controlled, graceful, almost leisurely — the walk of someone entirely unbothered by the chaos he left in his wake.
As he reached the company building's door, he paused, checking his knuckles. A small, knowing smile tugged his lips upward.
"It must've hurt," he murmured to himself.
Then he slipped inside, silent and composed — the very picture of a man no one could touch.
To be continued.....