Chapter 7 — A Man Without a Heart
The office smelled of coffee and ambition.
Arin sat behind the polished desk, fingers tapping silently against the wood. Employees passed by, greeting him politely, but he didn't respond. Not a nod. Not a smile. Nothing.
They called him efficient. Precise. Cold. Unapproachable.
Exactly as he wanted.
A colleague dared a joke.
Arin didn't flinch.
A client tried to charm him.
Arin didn't respond.
Years of silence had honed him into something sharp, something untouchable.
No one knew he smiled in the shower, alone, thinking about the boy he used to be.
The phone rang. A voice—familiar, too warm—asked about a project.
"Call me when it's done," he said flatly, hanging up.
Inside, something throbbed. A memory of laughter. A memory of Neel. Of home. Of someone who once cared.
He shoved it down.
Not now. Not ever.
Arin had learned the only way to survive was to stop caring.
To stop loving.
To stop being seen.
And so he built a life that ran on order, not feelings.
On rules, not trust.
The boy who once begged to be noticed was gone.
All that remained was a man without a heart.