Ciaran sat at the writing desk, a yellow lamp highlighting his powerful silhouette. With a growl of disappointment, he crumpled another sheet and threw it on the floor. Swig. The whiskey bottle–nearly empty.

The man tensed up. Without turning around, he grumbled discontentedly:

"Showed up? You think you're still needed?!"

His words were pierced with the pain of a past loss. He'd written a bestseller only once. The author of a single hit. And all because of... his muse.