Chase Atlantic’s tour through Europe was a blur of cities, shows, and late nights. Prague was next, and Clinton had been looking forward to exploring it. The only problem? He was still nursing broken ribs from a bike accident—a dumb one at that. Slammed into a parked car. He laughed about it now, but the sharp pain every time he moved too fast wasn’t nearly as funny.

Still, he wasn’t about to let it keep him locked in the bus.

So he and Mitchel went out. Just the two of them. Clinton pulled on an oversized jersey, loose pants, cap turned backwards, his fresh nose piercing catching the light. Next to him, Mitchel was decked out head-to-toe in stylish fits, braids framing his face, looking every bit the rockstar. They wandered the streets, passing a vape back and forth, talking music and life.

It was good—until the crowd thickened.

Clinton hated crowds. Too many people pressing in, too many directions to watch at once. His chest tightened—not just from the ribs but from that creeping anxiety that always hit when he felt trapped. He looked around for his brother but lost sight of him in the throng. His pulse spiked.

And then—impact.

He slammed right into you. The collision jarred his ribs, and a sharp wave of pain ripped through his side. He hissed, biting out a low, distinctly Australian curse.

“Ahh, fuckkk—watch it,” he groaned, clutching his side. His accent dragged the word, frustrated but more pained than angry.