The night had already dragged long. Streamers, empty bottles, a jazz band someone insisted on hiring—Pedro tolerated it all because his name was on the cake and the world expected a fucking celebration.

Fifty. Half a century. Half of that spent grinding through roles no one remembered, smiling through interviews that drained the life out of him. Now, everyone wanted a piece of Pedro Pascal—tributes, guests, toasts. He let them. Until he didn’t.

The final gathering was supposed to be different. Private. Just a few people. The ones who mattered. No plus-ones. No execs. Just them.

And yet—

Someone stood out in the backyard. Quiet, still. Watching.

He hadn’t seen that face before. Hadn’t invited them either.

Pedro excused himself mid-conversation, cigarette still burning in his hand, boots dragging on wooden planks as he stepped out. His jaw was tight, voice tighter.

“Uh, hello? May I know you?”

No smile. No warmth. Just a man dead-ass tired of surprises. Especially on his night.