PART 1
The apartment felt like a tomb. It was 4:45 AM on a freezing January morning in 2026, and the gray, suffocating light was just starting to bleed through the heavy clouds, casting sickly pale shadows across the floor. You had been sitting at the kitchen island for six agonizing hours, watching the world remain deathly still while your internal life felt like it was vibrating apart. The coffee in your mug was a cold, oily sludge, untouched for hours, much like the relationship you were trying so desperately to salvage from the wreckage of his ambition.
When the front door finally flew open, it didn't just open—it hit the doorstop with a violent, metallic crack that echoed through the hallway like a gunshot.
Bang Chan stormed in with his coat open, flapping behind him like the wings of some dark omen. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his jaw set so tight you could see the muscles leaping in his neck. He looked like he was vibrating with a restless, toxic energy, a storm trapped inside a human skin. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t drop his bag. He didn't even shed his soaked coat. He marched toward his office with a singular, cold purpose, his boots thumping rhythmically against the hardwood like a countdown to something final.
"We’re talking. Now," you said. Your voice was a jagged blade in the quiet room, cutting through the heavy air and the static of his entrance.
Chan didn't even slow down. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that sounded more like a growl. "Move, Y/N. I have a project report due in three hours and I am not in the mood for your theatrics."
"Theatrics?" You were off the stool in a second, your movement fueled by a month of adrenaline, caffeine, and heartbreak. You intercepted him at the door, planting your feet and staring him down with a fire he hadn't seen in years. "I haven't seen you for more than ten minutes a day for three weeks. You ignore my texts. You look through me like I’m a ghost. You don't get to call my life 'theatrics' just because you're too arrogant to be a partner."
Chan finally looked up, and the sight was devastating. His eyes weren't just tired—they were filled with a hard, defensive fire, a man pushed to his absolute limit and ready to snap at the first person who touched him.
"Partner? You think being a partner is standing in my way when I’m trying to keep our heads above water?" He stepped closer, his presence suffocatingly large in the small hallway. "I am managing a site with five hundred people. I am dealing with lawsuits and city planners and a budget that is hemorrhaging cash. I am the one who has to answer for every mistake. I don't have the luxury of sitting around and talking about my 'feelings' with you while the world is burning down."
"You don't have the luxury of being a decent person either, apparently!" you yelled, shoving his shoulder with both hands. He didn't even stumble. He just stood there like a wall of ice, cold and immovable. "You’ve turned into a monster, Chris. You’re cold and you’re cruel and you use your job as an excuse to treat me like I’m a burden. You’ve crawled so far into the shadows of your own ambition that you can't even see how much you’re hurting me. You think you’re building something? You’re just digging a grave for us!"
"Then leave!" Chan roared, a sound so loud it felt like it shook the glass in the balcony windows. He stepped into your personal space, looming over you, his voice a guttural snarl that rattled your bones. "If I’m such a monster and if the shadows are so dark then find the door! I am tired of coming home to a trial. I am tired of being interrogated because I didn't smile at you or ask how your day was. I am fighting a war out there every single day and I come home to find you starting another one."
"I’m fighting for us!" you screamed back, your hands balling into fists so tight your nails bit into your palms. "But you’re only fighting for yourself! You love the stress. You love the power of being the only one who can fix things. You love the fact that you can shut me out and make me feel small. You’re a coward, Chris. You’re hiding behind those blueprints because you’re too scared to admit that you’re lonely and miserable and that you need me!"
Chan’s face turned a dangerous shade of red, a vein throbbing in his temple. He slammed his fist into the wall right beside your ear, the sound of the drywall splintering loud and final. He didn't pull away. He leaned in until his nose was nearly touching yours, his eyes wild and dark. You could smell the bitter coffee, the cold rain, and the metallic tang of pure, unadulterated stress on him.
"You have no idea what I am," he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your face. "I am the only reason you have this life. I am the one who makes the sacrifices. I am the one who stays up until my eyes bleed so you can have everything you want. If you want a man who sits on the couch and holds your hand, then go find him. Because I am done apologizing for being successful. I am done pretending that your 'needs' are more important than the empire I am building."
He gripped the door handle and wrenched it open, the hinges screaming. He shouldered past you so hard you hit the opposite wall, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs and leaving you gasping.
"Stay out of my way, Y/N," he said without looking back, his voice flat and dead. "I’m done with the light. I’d rather be in the shadows alone than listen to another word you have to say."
The office door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place. It was a final, heavy sound that broke the last string holding you together. He wasn't stepping out. He was burying himself alive.
You didn't scream anymore. You didn't have the strength. You walked back to the living room, your legs feeling like lead. You collapsed onto the couch, curling into a ball as the first sob finally broke through. You cried until your throat was raw and your chest ached. You cried until your eyes were swollen and burning, until the gray light of morning filled the room and made everything look cold and washed out. Eventually, the sheer exhaustion of the heartbreak won, and you drifted into a heavy, fitful sleep, your cheeks still stained with salt and your breath still hitching in the quiet.
Inside the office, the silence eventually became louder than the static in Chan’s head.
Three hours later, the sun was fully up, but the office remained dark. Chan sat at his desk, staring at a computer screen he hadn't touched. The anger had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow shell of regret. He looked at his hand—the knuckles were bruised, blue, and swollen from the wall. He thought of your face, the way your eyes had looked so shattered, the way you had looked so small against the wall when he shouldered past you. The "empire" he was building suddenly felt like a pile of ash in his mouth.
He stood up, his movements slow, pained, and old. He unlocked the door and stepped out. The apartment was deathly quiet, the kind of silence that tells you someone has given up. He walked into the living room and stopped dead, the air leaving his lungs.
You were asleep on the couch, still wearing the clothes from the night before, looking small and fragile. You were curled in a tight ball, your hand clutching a throw pillow like a lifeline against your chest. Even in sleep, your face looked exhausted. Your eyelashes were clumped together from the tears, and your chest gave a small, shaky shudder every few seconds—a leftover reflex from the hours of sobbing.
Chan felt a wave of nausea hit him. He had won the argument, but he was looking at the person he was losing.
He walked over, his heart sinking into his stomach. He knelt beside the couch on the hardwood floor, reaching out a trembling hand to brush a stray hair from your face. His bruised, broken knuckles stood out against your pale skin. He realized then that all the money and success in the world didn't mean anything if he was coming home to a person he had broken.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking and wet, though he knew you couldn't hear him. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I forgot who I was doing this for."
He carefully slid his arms under you, lifting you as gently as if you were made of porcelain. You let out a soft, broken whimper in your sleep—a sound of pure sorrow that sliced right through his chest—and you instinctively tucked your face into the crook of his neck, seeking the warmth you had been fighting for all night. Even while your heart was hurting, you still went to him.
The weight of you in his arms made his eyes burn with the tears he had been too proud to shed. He carried you down the hall and into the bedroom, laying you down on the soft sheets. He pulled the heavy comforter up to your chin and stayed there for a long time, sitting on the edge of the mattress and watching you breathe. He realized that the shadows he had been hiding in were only safe because you were the light waiting on the other side—and he had almost put that light out for good.
The apartment felt like a tomb. It was 4:45 AM on a freezing January morning in 2026, and the gray, suffocating light was just starting to bleed through the heavy clouds, casting sickly pale shadows across the floor. You had been sitting at the kitchen island for six agonizing hours, watching the world remain deathly still while your internal life felt like it was vibrating apart. The coffee in your mug was a cold, oily sludge, untouched for hours, much like the relationship you were trying so desperately to salvage from the wreckage of his ambition.
When the front door finally flew open, it didn't just open—it hit the doorstop with a violent, metallic crack that echoed through the hallway like a gunshot.
Bang Chan stormed in with his coat open, flapping behind him like the wings of some dark omen. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his jaw set so tight you could see the muscles leaping in his neck. He looked like he was vibrating with a restless, toxic energy, a storm trapped inside a human skin. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t drop his bag. He didn't even shed his soaked coat. He marched toward his office with a singular, cold purpose, his boots thumping rhythmically against the hardwood like a countdown to something final.
"We’re talking. Now," you said. Your voice was a jagged blade in the quiet room, cutting through the heavy air and the static of his entrance.
Chan didn't even slow down. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that sounded more like a growl. "Move, Y/N. I have a project report due in three hours and I am not in the mood for your theatrics."
"Theatrics?" You were off the stool in a second, your movement fueled by a month of adrenaline, caffeine, and heartbreak. You intercepted him at the door, planting your feet and staring him down with a fire he hadn't seen in years. "I haven't seen you for more than ten minutes a day for three weeks. You ignore my texts. You look through me like I’m a ghost. You don't get to call my life 'theatrics' just because you're too arrogant to be a partner."
Chan finally looked up, and the sight was devastating. His eyes weren't just tired—they were filled with a hard, defensive fire, a man pushed to his absolute limit and ready to snap at the first person who touched him.
"Partner? You think being a partner is standing in my way when I’m trying to keep our heads above water?" He stepped closer, his presence suffocatingly large in the small hallway. "I am managing a site with five hundred people. I am dealing with lawsuits and city planners and a budget that is hemorrhaging cash. I am the one who has to answer for every mistake. I don't have the luxury of sitting around and talking about my 'feelings' with you while the world is burning down."
"You don't have the luxury of being a decent person either, apparently!" you yelled, shoving his shoulder with both hands. He didn't even stumble. He just stood there like a wall of ice, cold and immovable. "You’ve turned into a monster, Chris. You’re cold and you’re cruel and you use your job as an excuse to treat me like I’m a burden. You’ve crawled so far into the shadows of your own ambition that you can't even see how much you’re hurting me. You think you’re building something? You’re just digging a grave for us!"
"Then leave!" Chan roared, a sound so loud it felt like it shook the glass in the balcony windows. He stepped into your personal space, looming over you, his voice a guttural snarl that rattled your bones. "If I’m such a monster and if the shadows are so dark then find the door! I am tired of coming home to a trial. I am tired of being interrogated because I didn't smile at you or ask how your day was. I am fighting a war out there every single day and I come home to find you starting another one."
"I’m fighting for us!" you screamed back, your hands balling into fists so tight your nails bit into your palms. "But you’re only fighting for yourself! You love the stress. You love the power of being the only one who can fix things. You love the fact that you can shut me out and make me feel small. You’re a coward, Chris. You’re hiding behind those blueprints because you’re too scared to admit that you’re lonely and miserable and that you need me!"
Chan’s face turned a dangerous shade of red, a vein throbbing in his temple. He slammed his fist into the wall right beside your ear, the sound of the drywall splintering loud and final. He didn't pull away. He leaned in until his nose was nearly touching yours, his eyes wild and dark. You could smell the bitter coffee, the cold rain, and the metallic tang of pure, unadulterated stress on him.
"You have no idea what I am," he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your face. "I am the only reason you have this life. I am the one who makes the sacrifices. I am the one who stays up until my eyes bleed so you can have everything you want. If you want a man who sits on the couch and holds your hand, then go find him. Because I am done apologizing for being successful. I am done pretending that your 'needs' are more important than the empire I am building."
He gripped the door handle and wrenched it open, the hinges screaming. He shouldered past you so hard you hit the opposite wall, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs and leaving you gasping.
"Stay out of my way, Y/N," he said without looking back, his voice flat and dead. "I’m done with the light. I’d rather be in the shadows alone than listen to another word you have to say."
The office door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place. It was a final, heavy sound that broke the last string holding you together. He wasn't stepping out. He was burying himself alive.
You didn't scream anymore. You didn't have the strength. You walked back to the living room, your legs feeling like lead. You collapsed onto the couch, curling into a ball as the first sob finally broke through. You cried until your throat was raw and your chest ached. You cried until your eyes were swollen and burning, until the gray light of morning filled the room and made everything look cold and washed out. Eventually, the sheer exhaustion of the heartbreak won, and you drifted into a heavy, fitful sleep, your cheeks still stained with salt and your breath still hitching in the quiet.
Inside the office, the silence eventually became louder than the static in Chan’s head.
Three hours later, the sun was fully up, but the office remained dark. Chan sat at his desk, staring at a computer screen he hadn't touched. The anger had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow shell of regret. He looked at his hand—the knuckles were bruised, blue, and swollen from the wall. He thought of your face, the way your eyes had looked so shattered, the way you had looked so small against the wall when he shouldered past you. The "empire" he was building suddenly felt like a pile of ash in his mouth.
He stood up, his movements slow, pained, and old. He unlocked the door and stepped out. The apartment was deathly quiet, the kind of silence that tells you someone has given up. He walked into the living room and stopped dead, the air leaving his lungs.
You were asleep on the couch, still wearing the clothes from the night before, looking small and fragile. You were curled in a tight ball, your hand clutching a throw pillow like a lifeline against your chest. Even in sleep, your face looked exhausted. Your eyelashes were clumped together from the tears, and your chest gave a small, shaky shudder every few seconds—a leftover reflex from the hours of sobbing.
Chan felt a wave of nausea hit him. He had won the argument, but he was looking at the person he was losing.
He walked over, his heart sinking into his stomach. He knelt beside the couch on the hardwood floor, reaching out a trembling hand to brush a stray hair from your face. His bruised, broken knuckles stood out against your pale skin. He realized then that all the money and success in the world didn't mean anything if he was coming home to a person he had broken.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking and wet, though he knew you couldn't hear him. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I forgot who I was doing this for."
He carefully slid his arms under you, lifting you as gently as if you were made of porcelain. You let out a soft, broken whimper in your sleep—a sound of pure sorrow that sliced right through his chest—and you instinctively tucked your face into the crook of his neck, seeking the warmth you had been fighting for all night. Even while your heart was hurting, you still went to him.
The weight of you in his arms made his eyes burn with the tears he had been too proud to shed. He carried you down the hall and into the bedroom, laying you down on the soft sheets. He pulled the heavy comforter up to your chin and stayed there for a long time, sitting on the edge of the mattress and watching you breathe. He realized that the shadows he had been hiding in were only safe because you were the light waiting on the other side—and he had almost put that light out for good.
