Soft morning light spilled through the tall glass windows of the penthouse, spreading a pale golden hue across the silent room. The only sound breaking the stillness was the shrill voice of a morning show host—a woman laughing too loudly, her smile too fake to be real.
Zaarif sat sprawled on the couch, a sandwich in one hand, the remote in the other.
His eyes were glued to the screen, half-focused, half-empty—like someone watching the world burn just to kill time.
From the hallway, quiet footsteps echoed.
Zaarim emerged, dressed in a black coat and matching trousers, his presence as sharp and cold as the morning air itself.
He moved with that same unhurried confidence, every step measured, every breath under control.
He stopped in front of Zaarif, watching him without a word.
The breakfast laid before his brother was untouched—but the television had his full attention.
Zaarim exhaled slowly, then, without warning, reached forward, snatched the remote from Zaarif's hand, and turned the TV off.
"What the hell, man? Why'd you do that?"
Zaarif snapped, his voice loud, irritation flashing across his face.
Zaarim's golden eyes stayed fixed on him—unblinking, steady, and cold.
"Eat your breakfast," he said flatly.
"Waking up just to listen to nonsense every morning—it's pathetic."
Zaarif scowled, slamming the sandwich down on the table.
"What's your problem, huh?
I turned it on—so what?
Who made you my warden?"
He grabbed the remote again, defiance burning in his eyes.
But Zaarim's lips curved into a faint, sarcastic smile.
Without a word, he stepped forward, pulled the plug from the socket, and set the wire down slowly—deliberately—as if challenging him to try again.
Silence filled the room for a few seconds.
Then Zaarif's voice rose again, sharp with frustration.
"I'm telling Dad! You never let me live in peace!"
Zaarim straightened to his full height, his expression calm, almost emotionless.
"Go ahead," he said quietly.
"Tell him.
Let's see what he can do."
There was something in his tone—not anger, not mockery—just a chilling certainty that made the room feel smaller.
He walked toward the counter, picked up a small pack of tablets, and placed it in front of Zaarif.
"Take your medicine on time," he said, voice cold, distant—then turned and walked toward the door.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, Zaarif sat in silence, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the unplugged TV.
Then, with a muttered curse, he bent down, pulled out a hidden spare cord, and plugged it back in.
The screen flickered to life again—the same blinding lights, the same fake smiles, the same meaningless noise.
Zaarif leaned back on the couch, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
"Do whatever you want, Zaarim," he muttered.
"You'll never win."
And as the screen flashed brighter, the penthouse once again filled with the hollow laughter of strangers.