Imran was pissed.
Not about the comment. He'd forgiven that before the words had fully left Talha's mouth.
But the silence? The shut-down? The refusal—again—to let anyone in? That burned.
It always did.
Because Talha was wound tight. Always had been. But now, he was a thread stretched so thin, Imran swore he could hear the snapping every time the man walked into a room.
He'd thought this was it. The moment Talha would finally break. Finally unravel. Finally admit that whatever pit he kept falling into was deeper than pride and darker than anger.
But no.
Talha just shoved it all further down.
Into that shadowy, locked-box part of himself no one had ever seen.
Except maybe in the ring.
In the ring, it came out.
Talha wasn't just a fighter—he was a storm. Sarajevo's undefeated champion. A man who fought like he had ghosts clawing at his back, and blood was the only way to make them stop screaming. He moved like a weapon. Calculated, brutal, beautiful. His opponents never stood a chance. They walked in with plans and muscle. Talha walked in with rage and purpose.
He didn't train like that. He didn't spar like that. In practice, he was focused. Controlled. Patient with his partners, even the sloppy ones. But the cage was different.
In the cage, he killed.
And the crowd loved it.
He had honor in the community. Fame. A reputation that turned heads when he stepped into a room. He had a little brother who looked up to him. Parents who bragged about him. And them—Imran and Ayub. Brothers in all but blood since they were teenagers.
And still, Talha looked so damn alone.
Imran sat at his desk, staring at the same email thread he'd been pretending to read for twenty minutes. His side throbbed from Caesar's tantrum the night before. The bandaging beneath his shirt tugged every time he breathed too deep. But that pain was manageable.
Watching Talha bleed out emotionally for years without lifting the tourniquet?
That was worse.
He was still scowling when the door opened.
"Knock knock," came Lamija's voice, bright and smooth as honey.
He didn't look up.
"Not a great time," he muttered.
"Good," she replied, striding in anyway. "You're due for a terrible one."
Selma followed quietly behind her, holding a leather folio and a hopeful smile that flickered the second she saw his expression.
"We wanted to pitch something," Lamija said. "Selma's idea, actually. A possible on-site daycare for warehouse staff. It would boost employee retention and reduce absenteeism."
Imran's fingers twitched on the desk.
"I don't have time for this," he snapped.
The words hit harder than he intended. Selma's smile disappeared completely. She took a step back.
"Sorry," she said softly. "We'll come back later."
"No—" Lamija began, but Selma was already out the door.
The silence that followed was immediate and sharp.
Lamija slowly turned to face him.
Brows lifted.
"Well, that was a choice."
Imran sighed and rubbed his temples. "I didn't mean it like that."
"You told her—what was it? Ah yes—'I don't have time for this.'"
"It wasn't personal."
"You snapped at the softest human in this building."
"She caught me on a bad morning."
Lamija crossed her arms and leaned against the edge of his desk. "You've been having a bad morning for five years, Imran."
He looked up at her. "You done?"
"Not even close."
He tried glaring. It had no effect. She was his sister, after all.
Lamija moved the folio aside and sat fully on his desk. "Talk to me."
"I'm busy."
"You're brooding."
"It's productive."
She reached over and snatched his mouse, spinning it. "Your screen's been frozen on the HR thread for twenty minutes. You haven't even scrolled."
Imran leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You really want to do this now?"
"Selma's gone. You owe me fifteen minutes and a sincere apology on her behalf."
He rolled his eyes.
She mirrored him.
Finally, he blew out a breath. "It's Talha."
Her posture softened just slightly. "What happened?"
"He's still sleeping around. Says he doesn't care enough to stop."
Lamija blinked. "He said that?"
"Exact words."
"Wow."
Imran nodded. "Yeah. Wow."
She didn't speak for a moment.
He filled the space. "We tried. Again. We asked. We pushed. He didn't budge. Just shut down like he always does. This time he made sure to tell me—'Not everything can be fixed with Babo's money and your connections.'"
Lamija winced. "Oof. That one stings."
"Didn't even flinch when he said it."
"Did you punch him?"
"No."
"Pity."
Imran cracked a tired smile.
Lamija tilted her head. "You know why he said it, right?"
Imran looked at her.
"Because you're safe," she said simply. "Because lashing out at you doesn't carry real consequences in his heart. He knows you'll still be there."
"He doesn't ask us to be there."
"But you always are."
Imran leaned forward, elbows on his desk, head in his hands. "I feel like we're going to lose him."
"You won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because he still comes back."
He didn't respond.
Lamija continued. "You want him to open up. But what if he never does? What if he can't? Then what?"
"Then we keep watching him destroy himself?"
"No," she said gently. "Then you stop waiting for a breakthrough. And you become the outlet. The place he can go when it gets too loud. When the crazy builds up and he doesn't know where to put it. You don't need to fix him. You just need to be the quiet."
Imran was quiet.
Lamija reached out and touched his arm. "He trusts you more than anyone. Don't underestimate what that means, even if he can't say it."
He nodded slowly.
Then groaned. "I snapped at Selma."
"Oh, you're going to apologize. With words. And probably baked goods."
"She's not even the one who said anything."
"Exactly. Which makes it worse."
Imran sat back. "You know she looks up to you, right?"
"Selma?"
He nodded.
"She's loyal," Lamija said. "Like you. Like Ayub. Like Talha."
She stood and brushed her skirt down. "Go find her later. Use your charm. Apologize sincerely. No boardroom smirk. Real words."
"Yes, boss."
She turned at the door, grinning. "And maybe next time we pitch something brilliant, try not to respond like a caveman."
"Duly noted."
"I'm serious. You were one grunt away from dragging her by her ponytail."
"Goodbye, Lamija."
She winked. "You're welcome."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Imran leaned back again, hands folded over his stomach.
He could still hear Talha's voice.
"I didn't ask him to."
That was the problem.
But he'd show up anyway.