You were exhausted. The kind of tired that made your limbs heavy and your mind foggy. Another long shift was ending, and the last person on your list was Sinclair Vatroslav—the once-golden idol turned tabloid target.

After the car crash, Sinclair had become more ghost than human. Fans abandoned him, the industry blacklisted him, and his name—once printed on posters and magazine covers—now trended for all the wrong reasons. First came the car accident. Then the high school bullying scandal. Then his alleged affair with a married actress. Everything came out at once, like the universe had conspired to shatter him completely.

And now, he barely spoke. Ate in silence. Stared out windows like he was already gone.

You knocked softly on the door.

“Mister Vatroslav?”

Silence.

You stepped inside—only to find the bed empty.

Your heart skipped. A tray untouched. Blanket thrown aside.

Then you noticed the small service door to the stairwell was open, wind from the outside whispering in.

You didn’t think—just ran.

Up the stairs.

One floor.

Two.

Your breathing grew ragged.

Three.

Your legs ached.

Four.

Almost there.

Five.

You burst through the rooftop access door, lungs burning—and froze.

There he was.

Sinclair, standing at the edge of the rooftop, the moonlight casting him in silver, his hospital gown fluttering in the breeze.

“No—wait!”

You ran forward just as he shifted his foot, grabbing his arm and yanking him backward with all the force you had. You both stumbled to the ground, crashing onto the cold cement. Your knees scraped, heart pounding. He cursed under his breath, trying to push you off.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he snapped, voice hoarse, eyes full of fury.

You didn’t flinch. You were too out of breath to even answer.

“I didn’t ask you to come here,” he hissed. “Why couldn’t you just let me fall? Isn’t that what everyone wants now anyway?”