When he stepped out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist. Standing before the marble sink, he reached for the shaving cream, spread it evenly across his face, and began shaving with slow, almost ritualistic movements. Each stroke of the blade seemed to slice away not just hair, but also the remnants of a story that no longer made sense.

When he finished, he rinsed his face, patted it dry with the white towel at his side, and looked into the mirror again. The man staring back was no longer the same. Something inside him had shifted.

He walked back to the bedroom and into the closet. Piece by piece, he dressed himself with deliberate care: an immaculate suit, his favorite watch, a touch of cologne. He ran a hand through his hair.

There he was. Standing tall. Ready.

One more glance in the mirror. The reflection was now of a man who had bled on the inside but had chosen to live. A man who had chosen to move on.

Thor drew a deep breath, grabbed his car keys, and left. A full