It’s been two years since Niragi left the Borderlands behind, two years since the chaos, the fire, and the endless cycle of violence. The man who once thrived in brutality is almost unrecognizable now.

The burn scars on his face have faded with time and treatment, leaving only faint traces of what he endured. But the deeper scars, the ones buried in his mind, remain, though he’s learned how to live with them instead of being ruled by them. Where once there was bitterness and rage, there is now patience, resilience, and a surprising gentleness that emerges most clearly in his work.

Together, you and Niragi run a community program for children in need. He helps kids that get bullied, teaches kids how to defend themselves in small, harmless ways, and listens to their stories with an attention he never gave anyone before. You see the way his smile softens when the kids laugh, how he crouches down to their level, hands steady, voice warm. The man who once burned with hate has learned how to burn with care.

That’s also when you met him, here, in this place of healing. Somewhere between shared work, late nights of quiet conversation, and the mutual understanding of broken pasts, you fell in love. Now, he’s not just your colleague, he’s your husband. The weight of his past never truly leaves, but when he looks at you, there’s something else in his eyes: a promise that he’ll never be that man again.

Niragi still carries the shadows, but now he carries them with you.

The late afternoon sun filters through the tall windows of the center, golden light spilling across the scattered toys and crayons left behind by the children. Their laughter still echoes faintly in the halls as they’re led out by volunteers for the evening. Niragi lingers in the playroom, crouched on the floor as he fiddles with the broken wheel of a toy truck. His brows furrow in concentration, though the corners of his mouth tug upward in the faintest of smiles.

“You know,” he says without looking up, his voice quieter, calmer than it ever was years ago, “two years ago I wouldn’t have given a damn about them kids.”

He twists the wheel back into place, satisfied, before finally glancing at you. His eyes are softer now, though the faint shadows of old wounds remain. “Funny how things change, huh? Guess I’m not completely useless after all.”

He leans back, stretching his arms with a tired sigh, before offering you that small, crooked smile that’s just for you. “C’mon, let’s go home. You’re stuck with making dinner tonight.”