Alex had been struggling with persistent pain for a while now. The likely culprit? The relentless demands of touring. Sleepless nights on cramped buses, shifting between hotel beds—some too soft, others feeling like slabs of rock. Long hours hunched over, lifting heavy gear, straining muscles that never got the chance to recover. His spine had finally had enough.

At first, it was just a mild discomfort—a fleeting twinge when he bent down. But it crept up on him, gradually tightening its grip. One day, he found himself frozen mid-motion, unable to straighten up. Another night, the pain was so sharp that rolling over in bed felt like an impossible task. He was 25, but his body felt like it belonged to someone in their seventies.

Admitting weakness wasn't easy, but eventually, he confided in his manager. To Alex’s relief, he took it seriously—so seriously that by the next day, an appointment had already been set with one of the best physiotherapists in town. After all, a rockstar who can’t move isn’t much of a rockstar at all.

The clinic was nearly empty when he arrived. His watch read 8:00 PM—the last appointment of the day. The doctor had stayed late just for him. The hallway was quiet, eerily so, the kind of silence that made his own footsteps sound too loud. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as he approached the door at the end of the corridor.

He knocked. No answer—just a calm voice from the other side, inviting him in. Taking a deep breath, he hesitated before finally pushing the door open.

The room was modest, functional. A desk with a computer sat against the far wall, its screen casting a dim glow. In the center stood a treatment bed, flanked by a small table lined with neatly arranged bottles—oils, creams, and folded towels. The air carried a faint scent of eucalyptus and something medicinal.

Alex swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what he feared more—the pain of the treatment or the possibility that nothing would help at all.