Sunlight drifted quietly across the river.
The city sounded softer here.
Far enough from the North district that the streets no longer echoed with carriage wheels and rehearsed politeness.
Far enough from the South district that the smell of sewage weakened beneath the scent of water and wet stone.
For a little while—
the world almost forgot what it was.
Sachu sat on the low bridge railing with one leg hanging lazily over the river below.
A paper bag rested beside him.
Meena eyed it suspiciously.
"You bought too much again."
"I brought lunch."
"You brought enough food to survive a famine."
She crossed her arms.
"You're terrible at pretending to be normal."
Sachu laughed quietly before taking another bite from the apple.
The girl watched him for a moment.
Even sitting carelessly on a dirty bridge, he still shined somehow.
Not because of the clothes.
Though those certainly didn't help.
Everything about him looked special.
"You're staring again," Sachu said.
"You shine."
"…What?"
"You look like someone who's never carried water in his life."
Sachu looked down at himself seriously.
"I can carry a water bucket."
That pulled a laugh out of her before she could stop it.
Sachu immediately pointed.
"There. You do that less now."
"Do what?"
"Laugh."
She rolled her eyes.
"You sound disappointed."
"I am disappointed. You used to laugh at everything."
"That was before I met you."
"Cruel."
She shook her head slowly before reaching into the paper bag beside him.
Bread.
Fruit.
Wrapped meat still warm from cooking.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"This definitely wasn't cheap."
Sachu leaned back against the railing.
"I know a guy."
"You are the guy."
"That's a serious accusation."
The girl tore off a small piece of bread.
Then quietly:
"My father saw you last week."
Sachu's expression softened slightly.
"…Oh."
"He asked why someone dressed like you keeps walking through our district."
"And what did you say?"
She shrugged.
"I told him you were strange."
"I am not strange."
She stayed quiet for a moment.
Then finally:
"You should stop coming so often."
The words settled awkwardly between them.
The river continued moving below.
Sachu studied her carefully now.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Too quickly to hide.
That made something warm move quietly through his chest.
But she still looked worried.
"My father talks," she admitted softly.
"So do the neighbors."
Sachu looked out across the water.
People always talked.
Especially when they saw things crossing lines they thought should stay separate.
"And?"
She hesitated.
Then:
"They think you're playing around."
The words felt heavier than she intended them to.
Sachu's smile faded slightly.
The girl noticed immediately.
"I didn't mean—"
"No," he interrupted gently.
"I know."
He really did know.
A rich man visiting the slums alone.
Returning again and again for the same girl.
People would assume boredom before sincerity.
That was how the world worked.
The girl lowered her eyes toward the bread in her hands.
"You shouldn't take this seriously."
Sachu blinked once.
"What?"
She forced a small laugh that didn't sound real.
"You'll go back eventually."
Back.
The word carried more distance than the river beneath them.
Sachu stayed quiet for longer than usual.
Then softly:
"Do you know why I keep coming here?"
The girl looked toward him again.
Sachu rested his arms loosely against his knees.
"Because of you," he murmured,
The wind moved quietly around them.
The girl stared at him quietly.
Now the silence between them felt different.
Closer.
Sachu noticed her looking at him again.
"What?"
The girl hesitated briefly.
Then quietly:
"Will your father approve of this?"
There it was.
Not the river.
Not the food.
Not the laughter.
The real thing sitting underneath all of it.
Sachu looked down at his hands.
For the first time that afternoon—
he didn't immediately know what to say.
The girl noticed.
And suddenly regretted asking.
"You don't have to answer."
"He won't."
The honesty arrived gently.
Without hesitation.
Without performance.
The girl's expression dimmed slightly.
Sachu leaned back against the railing again.
"He already planned most of my life before I learned how to read."
His smile returned faintly.
"I'm fairly certain I was supposed to marry someone named Evelyn or Marianne by now."
That earned a quiet laugh from her.
But only briefly.
"He'll hate me."
Sachu thought about it.
His father didn't hate people individually.
That would require seeing them as equals first.
"He'll hate the idea," Sachu corrected softly.
The girl looked toward him carefully.
"And you?"
Sachu stared at her for a long moment.
Then smiled slightly.
Not playful this time.
Real.
"I think I'm already in too deep to pretend this doesn't matter."
The mansion felt too large at night.
Servants moved through polished hallways beneath warm golden light, carrying trays and stacks of documents. Expensive paintings watched silently from the walls.
Sachu stood outside his father's study for several seconds before knocking.
"Come in."
His father sat beside the fireplace, reading paperwork with the same sharp focus he gave everything else.
Even resting, the man looked busy.
He glanced up briefly.
"You wanted something?"
Sachu stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"Yes."
His father waited.
Suddenly, Sachu realized he hadn't planned any of this.
That nervousness irritated him more than it should have.
"There's someone I want you to meet."
His father turned another page.
"A business partner?"
"No."
That got his attention.
The older man finally looked up properly.
Sachu held his gaze.
"Her name is Meena."
A pause.
"She's from the southern district."
Sachu noticed the wording immediately.
Not who she was.
Where she was from.
His father studied him quietly.
Then asked,
"Do you care about her?"
The question caught him off guard.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
His father noticed that too.
The fire crackled softly between them.
Finally, the older man set the papers aside.
"Then bring her family here next week."
Sachu stared at him.
"…What?"
"If my son intends to marry someone," his father said calmly, "I should at least meet her before the ceremony."
For several seconds, Sachu genuinely couldn't respond.
His father raised an eyebrow.
"You look disappointed."
"I thought you were going to yell at me."
"I considered it."
"Thanks, father."
"You're still my son."
The words sounded awkward coming from him.
Unused.
But sincere.
Something tightened in Sachu's chest.
He hadn't realized how badly he wanted this conversation not to become a fight.
His father looked back toward the fire.
"Take care of her."
A pause.
"Don't repeat my mistakes."
Sachu's expression softened.
"…I won't."
His father nodded once.
"Then I hope she's worth the trouble."
The engagement was arranged three weeks later.
Not extravagant.
Not secret either.
Meena still looked uncomfortable anytime servants bowed toward her.
Sachu found that slightly adorable.
"You're staring again," she muttered quietly during dinner.
"You look nervous."
"I am nervous."
She kicked him lightly beneath the table.
Sachu smiled into his glass.
For the first time in a very long time—
the future felt real.
Not perfect.
But possible.
The explosion came one month before the wedding.
Sachu never remembered the sound properly afterward.
Only fragments.
A violent pressure.
Shattered glass.
Heat.
Then screaming.
The ceiling collapsing inward.
Smoke swallowing everything.
He remembered trying to stand.
Someone yelling his name.
Then fire.
Pain tore through the side of his face so violently that thought itself stopped functioning.
After that—
nothing.
When Sachu opened his eyes again, winter had arrived.
At first, he thought he was blind.
Everything looked pale and distorted beneath the hospital light.
His throat burned.
His body felt impossibly heavy.
A nurse noticed him moving and froze briefly before rushing toward the hallway.
"He's awake."
Voices followed.
Footsteps.
Questions he couldn't answer.
Sachu ignored all of them.
"…My father?"
Silence.
That silence told him enough.
Something inside his chest collapsed quietly.
Not violently.
Just completely.
He left the hospital a month later.
Against medical advice.
Against reason.
Bandages still covered half his face.
People stared anyway.
The city looked different now.
Or perhaps he did.
By the time he reached Meena's house, rain had already begun falling.
He stood outside her door for several seconds before knocking weakly.
Footsteps approached.
Then the door opened.
Meena looked at him—
and froze.
For one terrible moment, she didn't recognize him.
Sachu saw the exact second realization appeared in her eyes.
Shock first.
Then horror.
Not cruelty.
That would have hurt less.
Her hand rose slowly toward her mouth.
"Sachu…"
His chest tightened painfully at the sound of his name.
He tried to smile.
The ruined side of his face barely moved correctly.
"I came to see you."
Meena stared silently.
Rain tapped softly against the roof above them.
Sachu suddenly became aware of everything at once.
The bandages.
The damaged skin.
The way her eyes kept trying not to look directly at him.
He felt ugly for the first time in his life.
Not insecure.
Ugly.
"I know things are difficult right now," he said quietly.
"But we can still leave if you want."
Meena's breathing became uneven.
Sachu stepped slightly closer.
"I can work," he whispered.
"It doesn't matter anymore."
Meena began crying.
Not loudly.
That somehow made it worse.
"Sachu…"
Her voice broke halfway through his name.
And suddenly—
he understood.
The silence.
The tears.
The way she couldn't look at him properly anymore.
She still cared.
But not enough.
Not enough to survive this.
Sachu stood there quietly for several seconds.
Rainwater slid down the side of his face.
Then slowly—
he nodded once.
A small smile appeared despite everything.
"I understand."
Meena covered her mouth as he turned away.
He never looked back.
The mansion felt empty now.
Most servants avoided looking directly at him.
The few that did looked away too quickly afterward.
Sachu walked slowly through the silent halls until he reached the bathroom.
Then stopped.
The mirror waited above the sink.
For several minutes—
he couldn't move.
Finally, he forced himself closer.
And looked.
The silence afterward felt endless.
One side of his face remained familiar.
The other looked melted into something barely human.
Burned flesh stretched unevenly beside exposed scarring. One eye no longer closed fully.
Sachu stared at himself quietly.
Then slowly reached upward.
His fingers pressed against the damaged skin.
Pain answered instantly.
But he kept pulling.
Harder.
As though somewhere beneath the ruined flesh, the old version of himself still existed.
The skin tore slightly.
Blood slid down into the sink.
Still—
he pulled again.
His breathing became uneven.
"Sir."
The voice startled him violently.
Smith stood near the doorway.
Grey-haired.
Thin.
The same man who used to bring him tea while he studied as a child.
The servant looked horrified.
"Sachu… stop."
Sachu laughed weakly.
The sound barely resembled one.
"He's gone."
His voice cracked.
"The person she loved is gone."
The servant stepped closer carefully.
"No."
"Yes."
Sachu looked back toward the mirror.
"She looked at me like I died."
The servant stayed silent for a long moment.
Then quietly:
"The world is cruel to broken things."
Sachu shut his eyes tightly.
The servant's voice softened.
"But you are still here."
Something inside Sachu nearly broke at those words.
Because for the first time since waking—
someone was speaking to him like he was still human.