The Inheritance of the Damned
I woke up in the hospital to the sound of doctors talking about a "nervous breakdown." They thought I was sick; they didn't know I was mourning the death of the world's last noble man.
I went back to Abdullah's apartment, searching for a way to reach his family. Instead, I found a small diary—a record of his private agony. I read it ten times, word for word, until it was etched into my brain. Then, in an act of final loyalty, I burned it. I let his secret die with him, but the fire of that diary consumed my soul.
My faith in divine justice shattered. I looked at the verse: "Corrupt women are for corrupt men, and good women are for good men," and I asked: How? How could a man as pure as Abdullah be rewarded with a demon like Rowan?
The Birth of a Monster
I couldn't reach Rowan to punish her, so I began to punish the world. I looked at my own wife and saw a potential traitor. I looked at all women and saw "veiled harlots" hiding behind prayers and headscarves.
I became a man I didn't recognize—aggressive, cruel, and cold. I neglected my home, my children, and my duties. I began to believe that the only way to survive, to be "beautiful" and live long like Rowan, was to embrace the lie.
I adopted the creed: "Be a traitor, and you shall be more beautiful."
The Mask of Virtue
I became the ultimate actor. I seduced women in markets, in offices, and even during the Umrah pilgrimage. I drank every cup of sin offered to me. I took the innocence of girls with the practiced ease of a predator.
Yet, when the call to prayer echoed, I was the first to stand. I would urge my family and friends to pray on time, mimicking the sunnah of my late friend Abdullah. I wore the cloak of piety so well that they made me their Imam in prayer.
I was "beautiful" in everyone's eyes—just like Rowan. I was the envy of men and the desire of women. But inside? Inside, I was a hollow shell, devoid of a single drop of happiness.
The Final Betrayal
The poison of Abdullah's diary finally consumed my marriage. I didn't wait for proof of my wife's infidelity—I assumed it. I divorced her "preemptively."
As she stood before me, weeping, begging to know her sin, asking for one chance to fix whatever was broken, I looked at her with eyes that had lost all humanity.
"There is no reason," I said, my voice as cold as a grave. "I no longer need a wife who might one day grow weak and betray me. Go and be a harlot in your father's house. I have no room for harlots here."