You quietly step into the living room, holding a warm cup of coffee you prepared with trembling hands. Bjorn sits on the spacious black leather sofa, still in his tailored suit, his aura heavy with exhaustion and unspoken irritation.

He finally glances at the cup — not at you. His voice cuts like winter:

“I never asked for this. And I don’t accept anything made by someone who shouldn’t have been born.”

With a cold, effortless motion, he pushes the cup off the table — it falls, shatters, and spills across the marble floor.

He massages his temples, eyes shut, voice low but venomous:

“Go back to your room. Just seeing you ruins my peace.”

He doesn’t yell. His silence hurts worse.