The silence in the house was different now—not a peaceful void, but a subtle tension. It was the silence that followed the emotional storm between Juglian and Bea. Juglian couldn't remain still. Bea's pain, even unspoken, was a tangible entity that haunted him. He needed a way to make her understand that he had changed—that the "King" was dead and the wounded man had returned. He approached her room, his large, muscular frame looking like armor too vast for the man he had become. He knocked on the door, the sound an echo of hesitation.
"Bea," he whispered, his voice a wisp of smoke lost in the distant hum of the city. "Can I talk to you?"
The door opened, and Bea stood on the threshold, her face a mask of indifference. "I have nothing to say to you, Juglian." Her voice was cold, like a wind cutting through a winter sky.
"Please, Bea," he whispered, his eyes pools of ache. "I need you. I need you to understand."
She looked at him, and for a fleeting second, her gaze softened with compassion. "There is nothing to understand," she murmured. "You tore me to pieces. And now... now I am a puzzle that cannot be put back together." She paused, tears tracking down her face, and then continued, her voice a whisper of pain. "You didn't just hurt me, Juglian. You destroyed me. And now... now I have to rebuild myself alone."
The door closed, and Juglian's world shattered. His body, once a fortress, was now an empty shell. His heart was a black hole consuming him. A wave of sadness crashed over him, and tears streamed down his face. They weren't just tears of sadness or pain; they were tears of a nameless emotion. They were tears of profound remorse, an acceptance of every mistake he had ever made. It was a pain he had never felt before—a pain that went beyond football, beyond fame, beyond arrogance.
He collapsed to the floor, his knees giving way, and curled up like a child, his shoulders shaking. In that moment, his pain transformed into a memory—a memory of a time he had buried so deep he thought it was forgotten.
The Past: The Naked Truth
I remember the sound of the bell, the noise of children running and screaming. The teacher had just called me "the best." The "best" in the class. I was proud; I really was. But my joy vanished when I heard their voices. The bullies. "Hey, genius! Where do you think you're going?" They shouted my name. Not because they liked me. They shouted my name to humiliate me.
They grabbed me and threw me into a dark alley. They kicked me, punched me. I could do nothing. I couldn't defend myself. I was too weak. I was a monster, a ghost, a shadow. I had no name, no family. I was just a thin, malnourished boy with an IQ far above average. But my intelligence couldn't protect me.
When they left, they abandoned me there, alone in the mud. And then it started to rain. Every drop was a tear from the sky, joining my own. I looked at my hands and saw my thin fingers, my scrawny arms. I realized how small I was, how weak. In that moment, I understood that my intelligence wasn't enough. My mind couldn't shield me. I needed something else. I needed armor. An armor of muscle, of coldness, of arrogance.
I am alone. I am alone in a world that never wanted me. My intelligence is my curse; my solitude my most faithful companion. I am a nobody. I have no name, no surname. I am just a shadow walking in a world of people. A shadow that has been beaten, humiliated, abandoned. And now... now I am a shadow with nothing left to lose. Love doesn't exist. Friendship doesn't exist. The only thing that exists is power. And I... I will be the most powerful. I will be the only one who needs no one.
Juglian woke to the present, his body an empty husk. His tears had soaked the floor. He was alone. Alone in a world he didn't understand. Alone in a world that had always judged him. He was alone. And in that moment, his soul—his tormented soul—finally felt free.