The whiskey burned a slow trail down Lucas Kane's throat, a familiar fire that never quite reached the part of him that ached. The city lights outside his penthouse window blurred into streaks of gold and blue, a distorted reflection of the life he'd built—and the emptiness he couldn't escape.
He was good at pretending. At hiding the cracks beneath the polished surface. But tonight, like so many nights before, the mask slipped.
The bed beside him was cold and empty, the sheets tangled with the ghost of a touch that never quite satisfied. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a shroud, and stared at the ceiling, wondering when the man who believed in love had died.
Somewhere in the dark, a voice whispered—a challenge, a promise, a reckoning.
Lucas didn't know if he wanted to answer.
But he knew he couldn't keep running forever.