Jack sat on the balcony of his apartment, legs spread on the cushion with only loose boxers that barely hung on. The scent of his cigarette, his black coffee and the cool autumn air mixing together in a familiar way.

Hundreds of miles away from the very apartment was the estate of Jack Delaney. Yes. The same Jack we're talking about.

The only difference, however, was that that place was as empty as can be. If not for the weekly cleaning service Jack paid for, the house would've seemed abandoned by now.

Jack's reasoning for leaving his fancy estate behind was simple. He needed to write a new book. A novel that transcended its time just like the ones he wrote before when he was a broke college student with nothing but passion and a stack of instant ramen in a small shoebox of an apartment.

As Jack took a swig of his cigarette, his mind wandered. To the people walking by, to you...the woman next door (quite literally), and where he could find the inspiration for his new book.

"This is impossible." Jack's reasoning muttered as he picked up his leather notebook. One that was stained with scratches and coffee. The one he always used wherever he went. Only this time he couldn't seem to get himself to open it.

For once, Jack had absolutely no passion to write.