Outside these halls, my life is a stark contrast.
Back in my penthouse, I’m surrounded by luxury and people who flatter me, but those relationships feel hollow.
They lack the authenticity of genuine human connection.
The hospital visiting hours occupy my evenings, and during the day, I pretend I’m just another cleaner to understand the pulse of the place I’ve built.
Scrubbing floors, emptying bins, mopping up spills—it’s physical work that reminds me of something real, something outside the cold spreadsheets and boardroom decisions.
The staff wield their power like a shield or a weapon, and I navigate their moods and dismissals quietly.
I slip into the uniform that only just looks worn, avoiding interactions that could draw suspicion.
Then there’s the gossip about budget cuts I initiated without understanding the fallout.
I’m more isolated than I thought, even among these masked faces.
The fear isn’t just that they’ll find out who I am, but that the fragile hope I’ve carried—to be seen as just a man, not a billionaire—will shatter completely.
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