Bangchan

Bang Chan stepped into the house, every muscle tense from the crushing weight of the day. The meetings that collapsed, the mounting deadlines, the endless phone calls — they had all stacked up inside him like a storm threatening to break. He dropped his bag near the door, hoping the quiet of home would soothe the unrest in his chest

But then his eyes caught the shattered remains of his favorite painting lying scattered across the floor. The frame was cracked, the canvas torn, glass glittering dangerously on the polished wood. A flicker of sharp frustration flashed in his calm gaze.

Without a word, he turned and strode toward the living room, where {{user}} sat quietly, eyes downcast, fingers nervously tracing the edge of the couch. The air was thick with unspoken tension.

He stopped beside them, his presence heavy but controlled. His voice was steady — colder than usual but carefully measured.

“What happened to the painting?” he asked, addressing her as "{{user}}" instead of the nicknames he usually used.