Breaks & Binds (Imran's POV)

'd been staring at the same email for twenty minutes and hadn't read a single word.

My side still ached from Caesar's tantrum. The bandage pulled every time I breathed too deep.

That pain was manageable.

Watching Talha bleed out emotionally for years—without lifting the tourniquet?

That hurt more.

And it wasn't the comment that got to me.

I forgave that before it even left his mouth.

It was the silence. The shutdown. The way he looked us in the eye and still shoved us out like we were strangers at the edge of a cage.

That burned.

Because Talha was wound tight. Always had been. But now, he was a thread stretched so thin, I swore I could hear it snapping every time he walked into a room.

I thought this was it. The moment he'd finally break. Finally unravel. Finally admit that whatever pit he kept falling into was deeper than pride and darker than anger.

But no. He shoved it further down.

Into that 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 muscle and strategy. Talha walked in with rage and purpose.

He didn't train like that. Didn't spar like that. In practice, he was controlled. Focused. Patient even with 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 him. Parents who bragged about him.

And us—Ayub and me. Brothers in all but blood since we were kids.

And still, Talha looked so damn alone.

I sat at my desk, staring at the same email thread I'd been pretending to read for twenty minutes. My side throbbed from Caesar's tantrum the night before. The bandaging beneath my shirt tugged every time I breathed too deep. But that pain was manageable.

Watching Talha bleed out emotionally for years—without lifting the tourniquet?

That hurt more.

The door opened.

"Knock knock," Lamija said, breezing in like a storm wrapped in silk.

I didn't look up. "Not a great time."

"Good," she said. "You're due for a terrible one."

Selma followed behind her, clutching a leather folio and a hopeful smile—one that disappeared the second she saw my face.

"We wanted to pitch something," Lamija said. "Selma's idea. A possible on-site daycare for warehouse staff. It would boost employee retention and reduce absenteeism."

My fingers twitched on the desk.

"I don't have time for this," I snapped.

The words landed harder than I intended.

Selma's smile vanished completely. She took a small step back.

"Sorry," she said softly. "We'll come back later."

"No—" Lamija started, but Selma was already gone.

The silence she left behind was immediate and sharp.

Lamija turned to me slowly, arms crossed.

"Well. That was a choice."

I sighed and rubbed my temples. "I didn't mean it like that."

"You told her—and I quote—'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."

"You've been having a bad morning for five years, Imran."

I looked up at her. "You done?"

"Not even close."

I glared. She didn't flinch. Of course she didn't. She was a Begović.

She moved the folio aside and sat fully on my desk. "Talk to me."

"I'm busy."

"You're brooding."

"It's productive."

She spun my mouse. "Your screen's been frozen on the HR thread for twenty minutes."

I leaned back, arms crossed. "You really want to do this now?"

"Selma's gone. You owe me fifteen minutes and an apology—preferably one involving baked goods."

I rolled my eyes.

She mirrored me.

Finally, I exhaled. "It's Talha."

Her posture softened. "What happened?"

 "We tried. Again. We asked. We pushed. He didn't budge. Just shut down. Eyes dead, voice flat. Wouldn't even meet mine when I asked if he'd pass a test right now."

Lamija stilled. "What did he say?"

"'Yeah.'"

I said it flatly, like he had. No conviction. No heart. Just a word he knew we wouldn't believe.

"He looked away when he said it."

Lamija's face twisted—half sympathy, half fury.

I went on. "We know he's using again. We don't know how much. How often. We don't know where the bruises are coming from or what he's doing after he leaves the gym. We don't know anything—because he won't tell us."

Her voice dropped. "And that's what's eating you."

I nodded once. "He shuts down. We try to help, and he disappears. Comes back wrecked. Then acts like we're supposed to pretend everything's fine because he says he's 'trying.' But he's not. He's slipping. And he won't let us catch him. Then he added 'Not everything can be fixed with your Babo's money and your Begović connections.'"

Lamija winced. "Ouch."

"Didn't even blink when he said it."

"Did you punch him?"

"No."

"Pity."

I cracked a tired smile.

She tilted her head. "You know why he said it, right?"

I looked at her.

"Because you're safe," she said. "Because hurting you doesn't risk losing you. And because you keep showing up, no matter how hard he pushes."

"He doesn't ask us to be there."

"But you are."

I dropped my head into my hands. "I feel like we're going to lose him."

"We won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he still comes back."

I didn't answer.

She continued, "You want him to open up. But what if he never does? What if he can't?"

"Then we just watch him destroy himself?"

"No," she said gently. "Then you stop waiting for the breakthrough—and become the outlet. The place he can go when he can't hold it anymore. You don't have to fix him. You just have to be where the noise ends."

I was quiet.

She touched my arm. "He trusts you more than anyone. Don't underestimate that."

I nodded slowly.

Then groaned. "I snapped at Selma."

"Oh, you're going to apologize. With words."

"She's not even the one who said anything."

"Exactly. Which makes it worse."

I sat back. "You know she looks up to you, right?"

"Selma?"

I nodded.

"She's loyal," Lamija said. "Like you. Like Ayub. Like Talha."

She stood and smoothed her skirt. "Go find her. No boardroom charm. Just you. Just real."

"Yes, boss."

She turned at the door, grinning. "And 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.

I leaned back, hands folded over my stomach.

I could still hear Talha's voice:

"I didn't ask him to."

That was the problem.

He never asks.

But I'll keep showing up anyway.