{ 𝕭𝖔𝖔𝖐 #1 𝖎𝖓 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 }
.............
She is soft-spoken, he is hardened,
She is ice, he is fire,
She is sweet, he is fierce,
She is kind, he is arrogant,
She is peaceful beauty, he is fiercely handsome,
She is too innocent for t...
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Note:- This chapter would be in Abeer's Pov. Some people forgot who is he? So I'd suggest them to read the starting chapters of the story. Okay so let's get back to the chapter now....
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(When Viaanshi was unconscious after the kidnapping) And the most important thing he doesn't know that Viaanshi is kidnapped. I know it's confusing but the things would be more clear in the upcoming chapters.
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Third Person's Pov:-
The room was cloaked in deep shadows, the only illumination coming from a solitary lamp casting a feeble glow. In this dim cocoon, Abeer sat slumped on the bare floor, his back propped against the disheveled bed. He cut a picture of utter dejection and hopelessness.
Abeer's clothing hung off his frame in crumpled disarray, as if he had haphazardly thrown it on without care or thought. His tousled hair was a matted tangle, unbrushed and unwashed. But it was his expression that spoke the most visceral volumes about his inner desolation.
His eyes, once so vibrant and full of life's spark, now appeared dull and hollow, like those of a broken man who had stared too deeply into the abyss of sorrow. A heavy anguish weighed down the lines of his face, aging him well beyond his years. His lips were pressed into a grim line, as if smiling was an act he could scarcely recall how to perform.
Cradled in his left hand was a rocks glass, its bottom still coated with the final inches of rich amber liquid whiskey most likely, judging by the pungent fumes wafting up. His fingers loosely gripped the glass, knuckles whitely protruding as tremors occasionally made the contents shiver.
Abeer's entire bearing radiated a sense of a man utterly and completely defeated by the cruelties life had battered him with. Whatever trials he had endured, they had ruthlessly stripped him of joy, of purpose, of any will to carry on. He was an empty husk devoid of vitality.
As his eyes drifted unseeingly across the room, the devastation carved onto his features seemed to deepen further. Perhaps memories were violently reasserting themselves, lancing through him with the searing intensity of red hot pokers. The hand not holding the whiskey clenched spasmodically, nails digging crescent wounds into his palm as if inflicting physical pain could override his psychological anguish.
One might have expected the tear tracks etched on his stubbly cheeks. Or perhaps a keening wail of torment escaping past the barrier of his clenched teeth.
But Abeer remained frighteningly still and silent, not a muscle twitching save for those full body tremors that intermittently wracked his frame. It was the terrible, weighted quiet of a man who had cried every last tear, bellowed every scream, until he was rendered numb to anything but his inner desolation.
