Kumar’s POV

The next morning feels different.

The house is quiet as always, yet every sound seems to echo louder. The faint hum of the coffee machine, the soft thud of my steps, even my heartbeat sounds out of place.

I find Victor in the kitchen, already dressed, already perfect. His sleeves are rolled just enough to show the clean line of his wrist. His movements are smooth, practiced, like every motion follows a script he wrote for himself years ago.

He glances up when I walk in. “You’re late,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

I smirk faintly. “You didn’t give me a wake-up call today....