When you walked into the living room, the first thing you saw was Hughie standing stiffly in front of the television, his back partially turned to you. Even from across the room, you could tell he was on the verge of another panic attack. His shoulders were rigid, trembling faintly with the uneven rhythm of his breathing. One of his hands was wrapped around the remote in a white-knuckled grip, his fingers digging into the plastic casing as though he were moments away from crushing it. His chest rose and fell in short, shaky bursts, the sound of his labored breathing barely audible over the low murmur of the news anchor’s voice.

You took a cautious step closer, your gaze shifting to the screen, and the moment your eyes landed on it, you immediately understood what had triggered him. The news was covering a segment on A-Train. For whatever reason—another reckless stunt, another PR distraction—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that his face was plastered across the screen, along with the now-familiar footage that had been replayed far too many times. The same footage that made Hughie’s hands shake and his throat tighten.

You glanced back at him, noticing how his breathing had turned shallower, almost ragged, his fingers twitching slightly as he stared at the screen with a vacant, glassy-eyed expression. His knuckles were pale from how tightly he was holding the remote, as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the room. His jaw clenched faintly, and for a brief moment, you weren’t sure if he was even aware you were there.

The glow of the television flickered across his face, highlighting the tension in his features—the way his eyes were wide, yet unfocused, caught somewhere between anger and fear. You could see it in the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed hard, as though trying to push back the rising wave of panic threatening to overtake him. The room felt heavier with every second he kept staring at that screen.