It was Ryan who had insisted that Kai take a break from work. "Take a few days off until you feel better," Ryan had said firmly. "I'll handle everything at the office." That was why Kai was still home. Supposedly resting. Supposedly recovering. But this didn't look like recovery.
Later that evening, Alina decided to make sandwiches because she was craving something light. She called Kai into the kitchen to help. He joined her quietly, rolling up his sleeves without protest.
He began chopping vegetables—cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce—his movements precise, almost mechanical. The knife moved steadily against the cutting board. Within minutes, everything was neatly prepared. He wiped his hands and went to bring the bread and sauces from the pantry.
When he returned, he placed everything on the counter and then frowned slightly.
"Where are the vegetables?" he asked.
Alina looked at him in disbelief. "You just chopped them."
He stared at the counter as if seeing it for the first time. The bowl of freshly cut vegetables sat right in front of him.
"I did?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, Kai. You finished cutting them a few minutes ago." He didn't argue. He simply nodded, but the confusion in his eyes didn't fade.
Another incident happened that same night. He searched for his phone for almost ten minutes, checking the living room, the kitchen, and even the bedroom. His frustration wasn't loud, but it was visible in the way he ran a hand through his hair. Finally, Alina gently pointed toward his hand.
"Kai," she said softly, "it's in your hand."
He looked down. He had been holding it the entire time. He let out a faint breath, something between a sigh and disbelief.
And then, the following morning, he asked her what day it was. She told him it was Thursday. An hour later, he asked again. Not jokingly. Not playfully. He truly didn't remember asking before. Each small moment chipped away at her composure.
Alina couldn't ignore it anymore. She met Ryan privately and told him everything—the coffee, the vegetables, the phone, the repeated questions. Ryan's expression darkened with concern as he listened.
"He needs structure again," Ryan concluded after a long silence. "If he stays idle, his mind will keep drifting. Let's bring him back to the office. If he stays busy, maybe he'll return to normal."
It sounded logical. It sounded hopeful. So they did exactly that. Kai returned to work. On the surface, he seemed fine. He showed up at the office. He attended meetings. He reviewed scripts.
Ryan even arranged for him to give an acting class, thinking it would reignite his passion. Kai stood in front of the students, explaining techniques and demonstrating scenes. His voice was steady, his expressions controlled. But his mind wasn't there. He paused mid-sentence more than once. Lost his train of thought. Gave instructions that lacked the usual fire that made people admire him. The students noticed it. Ryan noticed it. Alina noticed it most of all.
Ryan became protective. He forced Kai to avoid interviews, to stay away from fans and public interactions. Whenever media outlets requested appearances, Ryan declined firmly.
"He's fully booked," Ryan would say. "His schedule is packed."
Even top collaborations were handled solely by Ryan now. Contracts, negotiations, meetings—Ryan managed them all while presenting them as Kai's strategic decision. But that wasn't the truth. Kai wasn't busy. He was simply present without being present. Days passed. Then weeks. And nothing changed.
He stopped smiling. Not dramatically. Not in a way that anyone could accuse him of being rude. He simply didn't smile anymore. The warmth in his gaze when he looked at Alina disappeared. He still looked at her, but not the way he used to. There was no softness, no spark of amusement, no silent conversation in his eyes.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't irritated. He was numb. And numb Kai was worse than broken Kai. If he had been angry, he would have shouted. If he had been broken, he would have cried. But numbness was quiet. It settled deep and refused to move.
He continued doing everything he used to do. He dressed impeccably. He went to the office. He reviewed work. He attended the necessary meetings. But the spark was gone. The passion that once made him magnetic had vanished.
Alina observed him for days, then weeks. She watched the way he walked into rooms without the commanding presence he once carried effortlessly. She watched the way he listened without reacting. She watched the way his laughter—when it came—felt delayed and hollow.
He was just going to work now. Every significant decision was handled by Ryan behind the scenes. Kai merely approved what was placed in front of him.
She had thought that keeping him busy would bring him back. She had believed that routine would restore him. Instead, it exposed something worse. He couldn't focus. He couldn't fully engage. And no matter how structured his day became, the spark did not return.
One evening, as he sat quietly in the living room, staring at nothing in particular, Alina realized the truth she had been avoiding. This wasn't exhaustion. It wasn't simple stress. It was emptiness. And emptiness, if left untouched, could become permanent.
She stood there watching him for a long time, her heart heavy with fear. Busy Kai wasn't coming back. Confident Kai wasn't coming back. Not like this. And for the first time, she understood that forcing normalcy might have been the worst decision they could have made.
****
Kai had not planned it carefully. He had not informed Ryan, nor had he mentioned it to anyone at the office. The day had already felt heavy, the kind of day where every conversation sounded distant, and every task felt mechanical.
While returning from work, he simply leaned back against the seat and told the driver to change the route. The driver did not question him. He never did. Kai stared outside, his expression unreadable, his mind circling one thought — he needed to see Anya's adoptive father. He needed to see how that man was surviving. Or if he was surviving at all.
What Kai did not know was that Alina had made the same decision that afternoon. She had been thinking about it for days. She took her own cab and arrived at the address. She stood near the gate, hesitant, rehearsing what she would say. She did not expect to see Kai's car pull up behind her.
The moment the familiar black vehicle stopped near the curb, her heart skipped. The driver stepped out to open the back door. Kai emerged, still in his work clothes, his coat perfectly fitted, his expression already distant. He did not notice her immediately; his gaze was fixed on the house.
Alina froze. She had not imagined encountering him there. For a brief second, she considered calling his name, but something in his posture stopped her. There was tension in the way his shoulders were set, in the way his jaw was clenched, even before anything had happened. She followed a few steps behind him without speaking.
The house lights were on. Warm yellow light spilled from the living room window. From outside, they could hear laughter — clear, light, unburdened laughter. Kai slowed. Alina noticed it first — the way his breathing changed.
Through the slightly open curtains, they saw the scene inside. Anya's adoptive father was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a small girl beside him. The child was holding a toy and tugging at his sleeve. He laughed as she tried to balance something on his head. His face was animated. Alive.
The sound pierced through Kai like a blade. Alina felt the shift before she even saw it fully. His body went rigid. The muscles along his neck tightened visibly. His hands, which had been relaxed by his sides, slowly curled into fists. His knuckles whitened. A pulse beat sharply against his temple.
His eyes darkened, then reddened — not merely from emotion, but from the sudden surge of fury that flooded him. The whites of his eyes turned streaked with red. The veins on his forehead stood out, thin and pronounced beneath his skin. Even the veins along his hands and forearms seemed to rise, stretching against his skin as though his anger needed more space.
Alina whispered, "Kai…" but he was already moving. He did not wait. He did not knock politely. He walked straight to the door and rang the bell once. Inside, the laughter paused faintly but did not immediately stop. He rang it again, harder.