The sound of cherished laughter filled the hall, slipping into Ivan's ears like an unwanted guest. Each giggle struck a nerve, scraping against his skull until his jaw tightened. He clenched his teeth, as if that alone could shut the noise out.
Ryaan had disappeared somewhere into the darker side of the room, swallowed by shadows and unfamiliar faces. Ivan didn't bother looking for him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered tonight.
A man approached him, voice loud and careless, cutting through Ivan's thoughts.
"What are you doing here alone, Ivan?" the man asked, gripping his arm and tugging him toward the crowd. "Come on, join us. Today your mother rebuilt her life. Wish us luck."
"Luck?"
The word stuck in Ivan's throat, sharp and bitter. His lips parted, but nothing came out. What he wanted to say was ugly. What he wanted to scream was worse.
I wish that man dead.
Hands pulled him forward. He didn't walk; he was dragged. Fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, squeezing hard enough to leave angry red marks on his skin. No one noticed. Or maybe they did, and simply didn't care.
The music swelled as he was pushed into the ballroom. Glasses clinked. People laughed, their smiles wide and effortless, as if joy were something freely available to everyone in the room. The lights shimmered above, reflecting off polished floors and expensive dresses.
And there she was.
His mother stood at the center of it all, dancing with her fiancé. She looked light, almost weightless, moving as if the past had never existed. She smiled—bright, genuine, alive. Her happiness burned like the sun, blinding Ivan where he stood.
He couldn't look away.
Ivan watched them sway together, watched her rest her head against another man's shoulder. Watched her fingers lace with his. Each movement felt deliberate, final. She was stepping into a new world—one where she held another man's hand and let go of everything that came before.
It felt like betrayal.
It felt like a wound.
A voice echoed in his head, low and relentless, repeating the same cruel sentence again and again.
Criminals never feel pain.
He didn't know where the thought had come from, only that it refused to leave. It scratched at his mind, burrowed deep, irritating him with its certainty. He moved away from the crowd and sank into a chair at a corner table, his back stiff, his eyes fixed on the dance floor.
He refused to look away.
Why had this happened to him?
Why his father?
Why did his father have to suffer so that someone else could smile this brightly?
The questions pressed down on his chest, heavy and unanswered. His breathing grew shallow, each breath fighting against the tightness building inside him. The room continued to hum around him laughter rising and falling, music thin and cheerful, glasses chiming together in celebration.
No one noticed the boy sitting in the corner, pale and unmoving.
Ivan kept staring, his eyes burning, his face expressionless under the lights. And the voice in his head kept repeating the same words, over and over, until they became unbearable.
Criminals never feel pain.
And tonight, surrounded by joy that wasn't meant for him, Ivan wondered if that meant he was already becoming one.