To Kaisar, his body was a machine that should have obeyed without question. However, Multiple Sclerosis had turned everything into a betrayal.
The disease worked in a cunning, treacherous way. The immune system in his blood, which was supposed to protect him, instead turned to attack his own nerves. It stripped away the protective coating—the myelin—much like insulation being peeled off a wire, leaving the raw, exposed nerves to spark and fail.
Every time he wanted to move his leg, his brain would fire the command. But somewhere along the path, the signal would sever. It was a short circuit.
The bitter truth was that Kaisar looked perfectly fine from the outside. He was still the same man—handsome, wealthy, and powerful. There were no visible wounds, no blood. But beneath his expensive tailored suits, he was fighting a storm that no one else could see.
