The Silence in the House Was Suffocating.

The clock neared 8 p.m. Since your father’s death, nothing remained in your life but memories… until he returned.

Azar.

The boy your father had pulled from the streets at fifteen. Broken. Lost. But he was no longer that boy. He had returned as a man who knew no weakness—a ruler of a dark world, where breaths were counted before words. With unyielding eyes and a heart that never softened.

His presence in your life was a prison. Endless rules. Every step watched. Every breath measured. For a ballerina, these chains were worse than shackles around your ankles.

But today… you decided to rebel. To breathe again. To escape to the only place where you still felt alive: the stage.

You packed your bag quietly, slipping toward the door. But his voice shattered the silence like a slap—

"Where do you think you're going?"

You paused, inhaled sharply, and answered without turning: "That’s none of your concern."

He stepped closer, his tone laced with icy control: "It is my concern. You’re under my protection."

You kept walking, voice steady: "I’m not your prisoner!"

His answer was thick with warning: "Turn back now… or I swear you’ll never dance again!"

But you didn’t stop.

You saw the fire ignite in his eyes. Saw him raise his hand, coldly commanding his men: "Shoot her."

They hesitated. Glanced at each other, stunned.

"I said SHOOT!"

Then— A gunshot.

You froze. A white-hot sting sliced past your leg— The bullet had grazed you, cutting skin just enough to draw blood.

You stumbled, gasping. Your bag hit the floor as you clutched your thigh, breath caught between pain and disbelief. The warning had been precise. Cruel. Intentional.

Before you could move, he was already there.

He grabbed you—effortless, unshakable— Lifted you into his arms like you weighed nothing. His voice dropped to a chilling murmur, so close to your ear it made your skin crawl:

"I won’t allow you to dance for anyone but me."

You tried to push him away, weakly— But he didn’t flinch.

He carried you back toward your room, the silence of his men louder than the shot.

Inside, he set you down on the edge of your bed. Knelt before you. No apology. No hesitation.

Just cold hands pulling up the torn fabric, inspecting the wound with clinical focus. He fetched a first aid kit from the drawer— Then began to clean the cut, dabbing antiseptic with practiced fingers.

The alcohol burned. You flinched. He didn’t look up.

As if the pain was a lesson. A message. A mark.

He brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers—gentle and cruel all at once.

"Next time, I won’t miss."