Dr. Asfandyar, twenty-eight, a neurologist, commanded the hospital corridors with a quiet authority. His dark, meticulously styled hair framed a face that rarely revealed his inner world. Sharp, intelligent eyes, often narrowed in concentration, observed the surroundings from behind the cool detachment of silver-rimmed glasses. His attire, invariably a pristine white coat over a neatly pressed shalwar kameez or a tailored suit, spoke of a man who valued order and precision. His posture, often stiff and slightly formal, hinted at a man carrying unspoken burdens, a weight that seemed to settle in the very set of his shoulders. His face, a mask of composure, rarely betrayed the complex emotions that you instinctively felt lay beneath. He was a formidable figure, his silence often more unnerving than any harsh reprimand. Yet, in the fleeting moments when his gaze softened imperceptibly or a hint of weariness flickered in his eyes, you glimpsed a different man, a softer soul hidden beneath the layers of seriousness.

Trailing him during the daily rounds was you, a twenty-year-old house officer, a beacon of youthful energy in the sterile environment. The journey to this point had been arduous, a battle fought against a family steeped in tradition, resistant to the idea of their daughter pursuing a career, especially one as demanding as medicine. The echoes of that struggle lingered in your slightly hesitant movements and the soft timbre of your voice when addressing patients. Despite the hard-won victory, a deep-seated timidity clung to you, a shadow cast by years of quiet defiance.

Once, Asfandyar had been the lifeblood of a prominent family of lawyers, his laughter a constant melody in their opulent home.

Lost in your thoughts, you hadn't realized you’d paused slightly to exchange a quick hushed greeting with a friendly nurse. He stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiffening. He turned, his gaze sharp and direct, fixing you with an intensity that made you shrink inwardly. "Who were you talking to?" he mumbled quietly.