The city spread beneath the glass walls like a map of light and noise — a sprawling testament to ambition and decay, where skyscrapers clawed at a sky the colour of a day-old bruise. Thirty floors up, the boardroom of Romano Enterprises stood in a silence so taut it felt like the breath before a bullet's impact. The air reeked faintly of polished mahogany, expensive coffee, and fear.
Men in tailored suits exchanged nervous glances as the double doors opened, admitting their king.
He walked in.
Ariyan Vincent Romano — the man the press called a visionary and the underworld called The Panther.
His suit was a masterpiece of shadow, the silver of his cufflinks catching the light like the gleam of a blade. His movements were precise, deliberate — every step calculated dominance. When he sat at the head of the table, silence didn't just follow; it surrendered.
"Let's begin," he said, voice calm, smooth as smoke over ice — the kind that could flay a man alive without rising a decibel.
The CFO, Aldrich, cleared his throat. "Sir, the quarterly profits are up eight percent. However, the proposed partnership with the Hanes Group—"
"Failed," Ariyan finished. His gaze lifted — cold, unerring. "Because you trusted a man who lies with a smile. I warned you his handshake was damp. You ignored that."
Aldrich paled. "Y-Yes, sir."
Ariyan leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "That mistake cost this company thirty million. My thirty million."
The room froze. Even the air conditioner seemed to hush in deference.
He turned slightly toward his assistant, Elena, who stood by the wall, efficient and unflinching. "Handle the termination papers. I want his replacement on my desk by noon."
Aldrich's voice cracked. "Sir, please — I have a family—"
"Don't beg," Ariyan cut in, eyes like winter steel. "Dignity is the last currency a man owns. Don't spend it here."
No one spoke after that. The rest of the meeting became a ritual of obedience — charts, numbers, meaningless syllables. Ariyan listened, corrected, commanded. He never raised his voice. He didn't need to. Power radiated from him in quiet, merciless waves.
When the meeting finally ended, the men filed out like ghosts. Only Elena lingered.
"Sir," she said softly, "you have a charity gala tonight at the Grand Royale. Do you plan to attend?"
His jaw tightened — the faintest shift, but enough to chill the air. "No."
"Understood," she replied, then added carefully, "Your father's name is listed as the honorary host. The press is expecting you."
Silence.
Ariyan's pen paused mid-signature. The sound of rain against the glass grew louder, a rhythmic whisper on the windows. He didn't look up. Didn't breathe.
"Cancel it," he said at last, voice low and final.
Elena nodded and left.
When the door clicked shut, Ariyan rose and walked to the glass. The city below shimmered under rain — glittering, alive, indifferent. Droplets traced cold paths down the glass like tears on a face that had forgotten how to weep.
For one fleeting second, he wasn't The Panther. He was a small boy on marble steps, clutching a storybook, waiting for a mother who never came — who chose flashbulbs and applause over bedtime promises.
He blinked once, and the boy vanished. The man who remained was stone. Emotion was weakness — and he'd buried his long ago beneath steel and empire.
---
Evening sunlight spilled through the small kitchen window, turning cracked linoleum into something briefly golden. The air smelled of detergent and something bitter beneath it — the quiet rot of endurance.
My hands were raw from scrubbing. My shoulders throbbed, but I didn't stop. Stopping was dangerous. Stillness was invitation.
"Anya!" my sister-in-law's voice sliced through the air. "Did you mop the floor or baptize it? It's supposed to be clean!"
I dried my hands on a frayed towel. "I did, b—" I caught myself before saying bhabhi. She hated that word.
"Do it again. I can still see dirt by the door. Or are your eyes as useless as your hands?"
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. "Okay."
I never argued. Arguing implied equality, and I'd long ago surrendered that illusion.
Her voice carried again, sharper now: "If your parents were alive, maybe they'd have taught you not to be such a burden."
My brother, Rohan, sat on the couch, pretending the newspaper headlines were fascinating. He was not cruel — just absent. The kind of absence that hurt more than any slap.
So I learned to disappear. To fold myself small. To smile politely, to make no noise, no demands. To become weightless.
When the chores finally ended, I changed into my old grey T-shirt and sat on the narrow cot that passed for a bed. My few books were stacked neatly beside me — my only treasures. Words never shouted, never judged; they simply stayed.
The phone buzzed.
Jisan.
My heart tripped over itself.
"Hey, Hazel," his voice poured through the speaker, bright and teasing. "Still saving the world one chore at a time?"
I smiled before I could stop it. "Someone has to. The world is very dirty."
"Cleaning again? You need a vacation."
"I need a life first," I said before I could swallow the truth.
He laughed — that warm, unguarded sound that reached straight into the hollow parts of me. "Then let's start small. Coffee tomorrow. After class. No excuses."
"Jisan, you don't have to—"
"I know," he said gently. "But I want to."
The call ended with his usual, "Take care, Hazel."
I sat there, phone still in hand, a smile ghosting my lips. He was everything bright and effortless — the kind of warmth that didn't ask to be earned. And I was the quiet shadow orbiting that light, grateful for every brief reflection.
Outside, the rain began again — softer this time, as though the storm itself was tired. I drew my knees to my chest and watched the droplets chase each other down the glass. Somewhere across this sprawling city, maybe someone else was watching the same rain, caught in the same quiet ache.
And for one fragile moment, I believed loneliness wasn't just mine — that maybe, beneath the endless sky and neon glare, all of us were small, waiting souls, tracing tears on glass and pretending they weren't our own.