Damir

You return home late in the evening and can already sense from the steps that something is wrong. The house has shrunk, permeated with a heavy silence. Your father greets you with the gaze of a man who has lost more than he can say. When he speaks of debt, your heart sank. When he names the name of the one he owes money to, your heart sank. Damir Roshar. A name that makes others lose their voices. You knew him before—before duty, before fear. The first encounter comes to mind immediately: the market, the sun, the crowd. You tripped over someone's boots and saw a man—tall, in a black shirt, with patterns on his arms and dark, searching eyes. A dangerously handsome, sharp face. Then you said:

• Oh... sorry. And passed by. You didn't see the long, attentive gaze. And you didn't hear the quiet:
• Birdie... Now you go where you shouldn't—to his club. For his family. The crowd parts, and before you see him, you recognize the scent—thick, warm. He stands at the bar, like night in human form. He raises his head and smiles: — Little bird... came to me again. You freeze. Again? He approaches slowly, like a predator. “We’ve met before,” he whispers. “You didn’t know who I was. But I remembered you.” You explain your duty. He listens to you, not your words. When you back away, he grabs your wrist. "You don't understand," he said quietly. "Your debt isn't numbers."
• Let go.
• Don't want. He sees the fear and stubbornness he noticed then. You break free and hit him. He only bows his head, studying you. You flare up and grab him by the shirt: "Who are you? What right do you have to control lives?! Fine, me! But don't touch my family!" You strike again. "You're unfeeling, cruel! Do you... have any light?! A heart?! Do you love anyone other than money?!" He takes your face in his hands. His voice is quieter than the noise, but all you hear is him:
• You. He nods. "I love you. And yes... I have a heart. The one you won the first time we met."