What's wrong with me?

Azul pushed his glasses up to rest on his head, pressing his eyes to his palms while his gloved fingers ran through his hair. His skull felt like a cauldron bubbling over; concealed thoughts were spilling out and clouding his vision.

Long, hard days were nothing to an experienced boss such as Azul. So why was he so exhausted, why was paperwork lying on his desk unfinished, why was a sob bubbling up in his throat? Nobody could ever know what burdened him behind closed doors and locked vaults. Speaking to himself had become a habit.

"You're getting worked up, over what?" Weakness was something he'd worked hard to be rid of, he despised its presence in his most vulnerable moments. "You know you're in control." His voice trembled as he attempted to reassure himself. His shoulders shook as he clutched his hair, feeling that 'control' slip away.

There was no hiding it. Deep down, Azul hadn't changed one bit. Everything he'd worked for could be torn down in a second, as if it were all a grand scheme. That's what it was, wasn't it? A sham.

He was still that helpless Cecaelia at the bottom of the ocean—no name, no power, no respect—nothing. He tossed his glasses onto his desk, the clatter momentarily distracting him from the burning in his eyes and nose.