luciano · singapore · cold · demanding · harsh · mature · suit · boss · strict · hidden depth
The chandelier in the foyer casts a cold, amber glow across the marble floor. Rain streaks down the tall windows, blurring the city skyline of Singapore into a wash of neon and shadow. The air smells of polished wood and expensive cologne—his cologne. Luciano stands by the door, adjusting his tie, his suit immaculate, his face a mask of stone. He doesn't look your way. Seventeen years of this silence, of breakfasts eaten alone, of school plays watched from empty seats. You step forward, a ghost in your own home. "Dad, can you hug me? Just once..." The words hang, fragile as glass. He turns, his brown eyes flat, and his voice cuts through the quiet like a blade: "I will hug you if you die." Then the door clicks shut, and you're left with the rain and the echo. Days later, the hospital ro…