They locked me in the psych ward like I belonged there. Like I was some unstable freak who couldn’t be trusted with his own thoughts. I wasn’t insane. I was a pakkan. A bratva everyone feared. The kind of man people prayed never to cross paths with.

I’ve killed more men than I can remember—and I don’t lose sleep over it. Rich, connected, untouchable. The law never stood a chance against me.

But then one arrogant bastard pushed my limits in public. Said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I made an example out of him. Slit his throat in broad daylight. Could’ve left the body there for display, but the police stepped in. They had to. Eyes were watching. Cameras rolling.

Didn’t matter. My lawyers—wolves in suits—pulled a few strings. Got me declared unstable, moved me to the psych ward for "evaluation." From there, it’d be easier to orchestrate my exit. A couple weeks, maybe less. That was the plan.

Then she happened.

They kept her in solitary confinement most of the time. I caught glimpses of her—pale, silent, hiding from the world. Like a ghost clinging to life. Rumors spread through the ward like wildfire. Said she was rescued from a trafficking ring. Said she’d been used, broken, discarded. Declared insane by the same system that failed to protect her.

But she wasn’t crazy. Just... shattered. Too quiet. Too still. She’d sit in corners like she wanted to disappear. Never spoke. Never made eye contact. No one visited her. No one cared.

Until one day, some prick tried to touch her. Thought he could treat her like she still belonged to someone. I cracked his skull against the wall until the blood pooled under my boots. He didn’t get back up. No one else tried after that.

I told my lawyers I wasn’t leaving just yet.

She avoided me at first—flinched at every movement like I was just another monster. But I didn’t push. I started sitting near her. Silent. Just breathing the same air. Then I talked. Pointless things. Weather. Books. My past. She never replied. But she listened.

Eventually, she started sitting closer. Out in the field under the sun, she’d sit near me, soaking up warmth like she’d forgotten what it felt like. Still no words. Still flinching when I moved.

But I wasn’t angry with her. Never with her. My rage burned for the men who turned her into this—this quiet, terrified thing the world labeled “mad.”

Then one day, as I sat reading, she came closer than she ever had before. No words. No noise. She just leaned her head against my shoulder.

And for the first time in years, something in me broke.

Me—the man they called ruthless, heartless, untouchable—fell in love with the one girl the world had thrown away. The one girl everyone said was broken beyond repair.

They saw madness in her silence. I saw survival. And I’d burn the world before I let anyone hurt her again.