Mika didn’t want to hear another word. Her head was pounding, her chest was tight, and the sheer sight of his calm, beautiful face was making her lose her mind. She needed to get away from him, to retreat to the safety of her master bedroom where she could scream into a pillow and figure out how to regain control of her own home.
With a sharp, dismissive scoff, she took a sudden step forward. "Get out of my way," she snapped.
As she went to pass him, she raised her hand and deliberately shoved him aside.
But Mika was operating on pure, adrenaline-fueled rage, and she underestimated both her own strength and how light Arlen’s lean frame actually was. The force of her push was far greater than she had intended.
Arlen, not sensing any real danger got caught completely off guard, lost his footing on the polished hardwood floor. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing slightly inside his oversized sleeves as he tried to regain his balance. But there was no time.
*Thud.*
A heavy, dull sound echoed through the quiet living room as Arlen’s lower back collided violently with the sharp, solid edge of the marble dining table. The impact was sudden and severe enough to rattle the crystal glasses sitting on the table’s surface.
Arlen let out a sharp, quiet gasp, his knees buckling slightly as the breath was knocked out of him. He gripped the edge of the marble table with his fingertips, his head hanging low as his body instinctively tensed against the sudden, blooming pain radiating across his lower back.
Mika froze.
The anger that had been fueling her just a second ago instantly evaporated, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. She stared at him, her hands still hovering in the air where she had pushed him. Her mind raced with a sudden, terrifying panic. *’Oh my god. Did I break him? What if he’s seriously hurt? If his grandfather finds out I physically assaulted him, the trial is over, and my family’s company is ruined.’*
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them moved. The television continued to hum quietly in the background.
"Arlen?" Mika’s voice was barely a whisper, the fierce, tyrannical singer suddenly sounding very small and very frightened.
Slowly, Arlen stood up. He let go of the marble table, his hands trembling slightly inside his long sleeves. He didn’t cry out. He didn’t glare at her. He didn’t even rub his back. He simply straightened his posture, though his movements were visibly stiffer, slower, and more guarded than before.
When he finally raised his head, his thick bangs shifted, and his left eye met hers.
His expression was entirely blank. There was no anger, no resentment, and no pain visible on his face-just that same, eerie, vacant stare. But the sheer lack of reaction was more terrifying to Mika than if he had screamed at her.
"I am sorry," Arlen said softly, his voice a little weaker than usual, but still carrying that same deadpan, polite tone. "I was standing in your path. I will be more careful next time."
Mika’s throat locked up. She wanted to say something-to apologize, to ask if he was okay, or to yell at him for making her feel guilty-but her pride and her fear kept her silent. She just stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Arlen gave her a small, stiff bow of his head. "I will go to my room now, Ms. Mika. Goodnight."
He turned and began to walk down the hallway. His steps were slower now, his usual smooth, effortless grace replaced by a slight, guarded limp as he tried to keep his lower back from moving too much. He reached the end of the hall, opened the door to his barren guest room, and stepped inside.
The soft, heavy *click* of his door closing felt like a gavel slamming down in a courtroom.
Mika stood alone in the center of her luxurious, empty living room. She looked at her hands, then at the sharp edge of the marble table. A deep, suffocating guilt began to claw at her chest, but she quickly shook her head, her jaw tightening as she forced her defensive, paranoid walls back up.
*’It was an accident,’* she lied to herself, her teeth grinding as she marched toward her master bedroom. *’He shouldn’t have been standing there. He’s fine. He’s just trying to make me feel bad.’*
But as she closed her own bedroom door, the memory of the heavy *thud* against the marble table refused to leave her mind, leaving her to spend the night tossing and turning in her expensive, comfortable bed, while down the hall, Arlen lay perfectly still on his bare wooden slats, silently enduring the throbbing pain in his back.
***
The next morning, the sun rose over the city, casting a warm glow through the bare window of the guest room. On the wooden slats, Arlen’s eyes fluttered open. The moment he attempted to sit up, a sharp, white-hot flash of pain flared across his lower back, radiating down his thighs.
He paused, lying flat for a few seconds. His expression didn’t change; his vacant left eye simply stared at the ceiling, waiting for the initial spasm to subside. Once the throbbing settled into a dull, heavy ache, Arlen engaged his core and sat up. His movements were slightly stiffer than usual, but he managed to stand, smoothing down his dark oversized sweater to cover any physical guardness.
Leaving his room, he walked down the hallway. Mika was sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a cup of coffee. Her eyes immediately snapped to him, filled with a tense, defensive anxiety. She had spent the night convincing herself that he was going to exaggerate his injury to make her feel guilty.
But as Arlen walked past the kitchen toward the foyer, he showed absolutely no sign of pain. His posture was straight, his stride was measured, and his face was as blank and serene as ever. He didn’t limp, he didn’t rub his back, and he didn’t look at her with accusing eyes.
Mika watched him go, her grip tightening on her mug. *’I knew it,’* she thought, a wave of relief washing over her, quickly replaced by her usual bitter suspicion. *’He’s completely fine. He barely tapped the table. He just wanted to play the tragic victim last night to mess with my head.’*
"I am going to get breakfast," Arlen murmured softly as he reached the door, giving her a polite, deadpan nod.
"Whatever," Mika muttered, looking away to hide her lingering unease.
Once outside the building, Arlen made his way down the sidewalk. The morning air was cool, and each step sent a quiet jolt of pain through his spine, but he simply walked through it, his mind detached from the physical discomfort. To Arlen, pain was just another sensation, like warmth or cold-something to be observed and accepted.
He entered the yellow-signed diner, the bell chiming above his head. He sat in his usual corner booth, carefully keeping his back from pressing against the hard vinyl booth seat. He ordered his "mixed eggs" from Beth, ate them in his usual slow, neat manner, and paid with the exact change from his leather pouch. To anyone watching, he was just a breathtakingly beautiful young man enjoying a quiet morning.
On his way back to the penthouse, however, Arlen stopped. His eye had caught the glowing green cross of a local pharmacy.
He stepped inside the quiet, sterile-smelling store. A young female pharmacist behind the counter blinked, momentarily starstruck by the ethereal, quiet beauty of the customer who had just walked in.
"Hello," Arlen said, his soft, androgynous voice carrying a peaceful, deadpan tone. "I would like some help with a table."
The pharmacist blinked, her brow furrowing. "A... table, sir?"
"Yes," Arlen nodded politely. "A marble table. It was very solid. My lower back collided with it yesterday."
The pharmacist’s face softened as she realized what he meant. "Oh! You mean you have lower back pain from an impact? A muscle bruise?"
"Yes. A bruise," Arlen agreed, his vacant eye blinking slowly. "It is very colorful now. Like a plum."
"Right. I can get you some over-the-counter pain relievers, and maybe a medicated heat patch to help soothe the muscle," she said, reaching for a couple of boxes behind her. "Take one pill every six hours with water. And don’t do any heavy lifting."
"I only lift bread and biscuits," Arlen assured her solemnly. "They are very light."
He opened his simple leather pouch, counted out the bills to pay for the medicine, and took the small plastic bag. "Thank you. Have a pleasant day."
With his pain relievers securely in hand, Arlen walked back to the high-rise building, ready to return to his barren room and continue his quiet, obedient wait.