It was my studio's third anniversary celebration.

And it happened to be a Friday.


Brian's call came right on schedule.

"Hello, Anna. Have you had dinner?"

"Yes."


"I managed three thousand steps in physical therapy today..."

"Good."


"I won't take up more of your time."

The call lasted less than two minutes.

These brief exchanges had continued for months—him carefully reporting his progress, me responding with minimal engagement.

I returned to the reception, only to spot Brian lurking in a corner.

He leaned heavily on a cane, keeping his distance from the crowd, as if the journey had cost him tremendous effort.

I marched directly to him, aware of the eyes following me.

"Who gave you permission to come here?" I asked coldly.

His face drained of color.

"I... I wanted to see you, Anna... you never visit anymore..."

"Phone privileges suspended for one month."

I announced his punishment and extended my hand.

"Now, give me your cane."

He looked up in disbelief, his face turning ashen as his body swayed slightly.

To lose his support in public, exposing his disability—this was more humiliating than any verbal reprimand.

Yet he simply lowered his head and placed the cane in my hand, his voice breaking: "Yes, Anna. I'm sorry."

The onlookers' expressions ranged from contempt to pity, but Brian seemed to register only my judgment.

I turned and walked away, knowing he would remain there, willingly enduring his punishment.

He craved any reaction from me.

Whether kindness or cruelty, praise or punishment—he didn't care, as long as it came from me.

Brian's obsession had begun when I first entered the Shaw family and offered him that small, insignificant kindness out of sympathy.

Now that spark had become a wildfire—a fixation where he would do anything to remain in my orbit.

And what about me?

How should I feel about this unstable young man who constantly violated my boundaries?