(A change of clothes)
Morning arrived brighter than either of them deserved.
Sunlight poured through the windows in broad warm strips, touching walls, floors, furniture—trying to make the house feel lighter than it had the night before.
For Joseph, it almost worked.
He moved through the kitchen with the relentless energy of a man who had decided optimism was now a duty. He washed the breakfast plates, hummed badly under his breath, opened curtains without permission, and generally behaved like someone who believed daylight could solve things.
For John—
it was intolerable.
He stood upstairs in front of his wardrobe, already irritated before choosing anything.
His head still felt heavy from broken sleep. There was a dull pressure behind his eyes. Not pain exactly—just a weight that refused to leave. His mouth was dry again despite the tea. His body carried that strange tiredness that came from illness rather than effort.
The kind rest did not fix.
He reached automatically for what he always wore.
A black tailored shirt. Dark fitted trousers. A charcoal jacket.
Control in fabric form.
Structured. Sharp. Unreadable.
He had just lifted the hanger when Joseph's voice came from the doorway.
"Are you seriously going to wear something so dark and suffocating?"
John didn't turn.
"It's what I always wear."
"That doesn't make it wise."
"It makes it mine."
Joseph stepped fully into the room, leaning against the frame like he belonged there now.
"Black shirt. Black trousers. Black face. Black mood." He folded his arms. "Very dramatic."
John finally looked over.
"Leave."
"No."
Joseph crossed to the bed, rifling shamelessly through the folded clothes John had arranged by color and use.
"Don't touch those."
"Too late."
He held up a soft blue T-shirt.
Then black casual trousers.
Then a pair of clean white sneakers.
John stared at him as though betrayal had taken physical form.
"To work?" he asked flatly.
Joseph tossed the clothes onto the bed.
"Yes. To work."
"I own the company."
"Then dress like a healthy owner."
"I'm not healthy."
The room went still.
Joseph's expression changed immediately.
Less teasing. More careful.
"No," he said quietly. "You're not. Which is exactly why I'm not letting you choke yourself in a suit at nine in the morning."
John looked away first.
The truth was annoying when spoken plainly.
"With chronic hepatitis B and liver fibrosis, fatigue gets worse when you push too hard," Joseph continued, surprising him. "Stress doesn't help. Heat doesn't help. Dehydration doesn't help."
"You memorized websites overnight?"
"I did."
"You need hobbies."
"My hobby is currently preventing you from becoming a cautionary tale."
John exhaled sharply through his nose.
Annoyed.
Tired.
And, beneath it all, unwillingly grateful.
He picked up the blue shirt.
"Happy now?"
"Deeply."
When John came downstairs dressed in the softer clothes, Joseph actually blinked.
The blue changed him.
Without the hard lines of collars and tailored black fabric, he looked younger. Less severe. Less like a man permanently braced for impact.
Still tired.
Still pale.
But human in a way the suits often concealed.
Joseph whistled once.
"See? Approachable."
"Say another word and I'll fire you."
"You can't. I don't work here."
"That has never stopped me before."
Joseph laughed, grabbing his keys.
He still wore yesterday's clothes, only slightly straightened and tucked in with false confidence.
"You look homeless," John said.
"And yet I'm driving your expensive car."
Outside, the street had fully awakened.
Vendors arranged fruit under umbrellas. Motorcycles cut through traffic like impatient insects. A woman called out prices for bread. Children in uniforms hurried past with bags bouncing at their backs. Heat already rose from the pavement though the day had barely begun.
Lagos moved whether people were ready or not.
They got into the car.
Joseph drove.
John leaned back in the passenger seat, one elbow near the window, eyes half-lidded.
For a while neither spoke.
The city noise faded behind the glass.
Then John coughed.
Small.
Dry.
Twice.
Joseph's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Before the diagnosis, he would have dismissed it.
Dust.
Weather.
A cold.
Now every small thing sounded dangerous.
"You alright?" he asked, trying for casual and missing.
John nodded.
Another pause.
Then Joseph glanced sideways.
"You need to tell me if something changes."
"It was a cough."
"It was a symptom."
"It was air."
"With your condition, nothing is just air."
John rubbed at his temple.
"You're becoming unbearable."
"I'm becoming informed."
Traffic slowed near a junction.
Joseph used the pause to continue what was clearly a campaign.
"Listen. Chronic hepatitis B can inflame the liver for years without obvious signs."
"I know."
"Fibrosis means scar tissue is already forming."
"I know."
"The liver still works—but less efficiently."
"I know."
"If you keep pretending nothing has changed—"
John turned his head slowly.
"I know."
The sharpness in those two words ended the lecture.
Joseph looked forward again.
Because beneath irritation, he heard what John meant.
I know my body is damaged.
I know I ignored signs.
I know this may follow me for years.
I know more than you think.
The rest of the drive passed in silence.
But it was a fuller silence than before.
Not empty.
Weighted.
The company building rose ahead in clean glass and steel.
Better Choice Holdings.
John's creation.
Joseph parked at the entrance.
Two security guards straightened immediately when they saw the car.
"Good morning, sir!"
"Morning, Chairman!"
They greeted John warmly as he stepped out.
Respect followed him naturally.
He gave a short nod and moved inside.
Joseph watched people notice him almost at once.
Then notice again.
Because something was different.
Usually John entered like winter.
Dark suit. Sharp eyes. Controlled stride. A presence that made staff lower voices and check mistakes twice.
Today—
blue shirt.
Relaxed trousers.
Sneakers.
No jacket.
No armor.
Employees tried not to stare and failed.
A receptionist blinked openly.
Two junior staff whispered near the elevators.
"Is that him?"
"Why does he look… nice?"
"Has he smiled before?"
"He hasn't smiled now."
"Still softer."
John heard every word.
His jaw tightened.
Joseph nearly laughed aloud.
As they crossed the lobby, the Operations Manager hurried over holding a tablet.
"Sir, the investor meeting at eleven, legal review at noon, and procurement flagged—"
"Reschedule the eleven," John said.
The man froze.
"Sir?"
"I have a medical checkup."
That word landed like a dropped glass.
Around them, several heads subtly lifted.
John almost never explained himself.
He certainly never offered personal information.
The manager recovered quickly.
"Of course, sir. Immediately."
John kept walking.
Joseph followed, studying him.
That could not have been easy.
In the elevator, the doors closed on the watching lobby.
Only then did John lean back slightly against the mirrored wall.
His face had gone paler.
"You okay?" Joseph asked quietly.
John nodded once.
But his hand had drifted unconsciously to the right side of his abdomen.
A brief press.
Then away.
Joseph noticed.
Liver discomfort could present there. Pressure under the ribs. Dull ache. Easy to ignore until it wasn't.
"You're having pain."
"No."
"You touched your side."
"I adjusted my shirt."
"You're lying badly."
John closed his eyes.
"Just discomfort."
"How long?"
"On and off."
"And you said nothing?"
"It was manageable."
Joseph's anger rose fast—not loud anger, but frightened anger.
"That's how people end up in worse stages. Everything is 'manageable' until it isn't."
The elevator chimed.
Doors opened.
John stepped out first.
"Then it's good I have you now," he said dryly.
Joseph stood there a second before following.
Because sarcasm aside—
that might have been the closest thing to gratitude John knew how to give.
From across the office floor, staff watched their founder move through the space in blue instead of black, slower than usual, quieter than usual.
They thought they were seeing a style change.
A mood shift.
Something small.
None of them knew a disease could enter a room invisibly.
None of them knew fatigue could wear a calm face.
None of them knew scar tissue could hide beneath good posture.
John knew.
Joseph knew.
And now the day had begun anyway.
The moment John stepped into his office, he stopped.
Only slightly.
Only enough for someone who knew him well to notice.
His eyes landed on the woman seated across from his desk as though she had always belonged there.
Precious.
She sat with one leg crossed over the other, dressed casually in fitted cream trousers, white sneakers, and a loose rust-colored blouse tucked carelessly at the waist. A denim jacket hung over the chair behind her. Her curls were pinned up loosely, a few strands falling around a face that looked too lively to ever stay still for long.
Even seated, she gave off motion.
Her eyes narrowed the second she saw him.
Then she smiled.
Slowly.
"You actually look your age."
The room fell quiet for half a beat.
Joseph barked a laugh from behind John.
John's face remained unreadable.
Precious leaned sideways and waved cheerfully at Joseph.
"And you," she said, pointing at him, "look like a burglar who got dressed in the dark."
Joseph looked down at his wrinkled shirt, then back at her with offense so genuine it was almost childlike.
"This is designer neglect."
"This is evidence."
John moved past both of them and set his briefcase down.
The office itself was wide, polished, and minimal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the restless spread of Lagos below—roads alive with movement, horns distant through insulated glass, sunlight striking towers and rooftops alike. Shelves lined one wall with business awards, framed certifications, and books no one touched often enough.
Everything in the room was expensive.
Everything in the room was controlled.
Which made Precious feel like the only untidy thing in it.
And somehow, the only honest one.
John lowered himself into his chair.
Only Joseph noticed the slight pause before he sat.
The carefulness.
The fraction of stiffness.
"Precious," John said calmly, "how's your body? I hope the accident didn't cause any serious harm."
His voice was softer than before.
More measured.
Precious noticed that too.
She leaned back and rubbed the side of her head dramatically.
"Those reporters are insane," she said. "Drunk driving? Please. I was driving perfectly well when I realized my brakes weren't working."
Joseph straightened.
"What?"
"The brakes failed," she repeated. "Completely."
Her tone remained casual, but her eyes darkened.
The humor drained from them so quickly it changed her whole face.
"I pressed once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. By the third time I was already sliding."
She snapped her fingers.
"Just like that."
Joseph frowned.
"I hope you reported it."
"I did."
She laughed once—dry and bitter.
"And somehow I ended up detained for six hours."
Joseph coughed awkwardly.
"That… was temporary confusion."
"That was you forgetting to mention you knew the officer."
"I fixed it."
"You arrived with snacks."
"It was support."
"It was pity."
John said nothing, but the corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
The closest thing to amusement.
Precious caught it immediately.
"There," she said, pointing at him. "That face. You nearly smiled. See what color can do?"
John leaned back.
"Why are you here?"
"To be appreciated."
"Denied."
"To submit brilliance, then."
She reached into a canvas bag at her side and pulled out several clipped sheets and a sketchpad. She tossed the top drawing toward him.
John caught it one-handed.
The sketch was rough but energetic—sharp lines, crowded shadows, a room full of characters around what looked like a counter lined with bottles and hanging lights.
He studied it longer than expected.
"Not bad," he said finally.
Then looked up.
"What's the story?"
Precious grinned.
"That compliment sounded painful."
"It was."
She stood, gathering her things.
"I'll send the first draft once I get back."
"What genre?" Joseph asked.
"Chaos."
"That isn't a genre."
"It should be."
She slung the bag over one shoulder and stretched slightly, then winced.
John's gaze sharpened.
"You're still in pain."
"It's bruising."
"You should rest."
"And you should stop pretending you're not pale."
That landed cleanly.
Joseph looked between them immediately.
John's expression flattened.
Precious tilted her head.
There it was again—that tiny delay in his movements, the faint tightness around the eyes, the unusual clothing, the absence of his usual cutting energy.
She knew something was off.
She just didn't know what.
Before the room could settle into it, she pointed toward the staircase outside.
"Also, seriously—you need to build an elevator. Those stairs are torture."
"There will be an elevator soon," Joseph said.
"Then how long ?"
"You ignored reception and took the longest cut ."
She blinked.
"…That sounds like me."
"It is."
She walked backward toward the door.
"I'm heading back to work. Try not to become boring before I return."
"You're late already," John said.
She placed a hand over her heart.
"Cruel in blue."
Then she was gone.
The office door clicked shut behind her.
Silence returned—but lighter than before.
Joseph dropped into the chair opposite John's desk.
"She's impossible."
"She's observant," John replied.
Joseph studied him.
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything."
That answer was automatic.
But less convincing than usual.
John looked back down at the sketch.
The drawing showed a bar interior crowded with strange personalities—laughing figures, hidden expressions, tension tucked into corners.
"Her work has improved," Joseph admitted, leaning over.
John nodded once.
"Though this definitely looks like a bar."
"Maybe it is."
"You think she wants to write about nightlife?"
John's eyes lingered on one shadowed figure in the corner of the drawing.
"Maybe she wants to write about people pretending to be fine."
Joseph went quiet.
The city noise beyond the glass seemed farther away.
He checked his phone, partly to break the moment.
"Your medical slot has been moved," he said. "This afternoon. Two-thirty."
John didn't answer immediately.
His thumb rested against the paper's edge.
A slight tremor? Or imagination?
Then:
"Alright."
Too calm.
Too easy.
Joseph knew that tone now.
It was the voice John used when bracing.
The air-conditioning hummed softly overhead.
Below them, Lagos moved at full speed.
Deals were made.
Calls were answered.
Traffic thickened.
Lunches planned.
Deadlines chased.
And in the middle of all that ordinary momentum, a man sat in a quiet office waiting for an afternoon appointment that might tell him how much damage his body had already hidden.
John placed the sketch aside and opened his laptop.
Work first.
Fear later.
It was how he had survived most things.
But the fatigue remained.
A dull heaviness behind the eyes.
A strange lack of appetite despite breakfast.
Intermittent discomfort beneath the right ribs.
The kind symptoms people explain away for months.
Sometimes years.
Until scans and bloodwork give them names.
Joseph watched him begin typing.
Steady hands.
Straight back.
Sharp focus.
To anyone else, he looked normal.
Successful.
In control.
Only the people closest ever notice how much effort "normal" can cost.