Ethan Lee was the kind of name that echoed through the halls of Pacific Crest University like legend. To most, he was the golden boy—football captain, top-tier athlete, the face of the university’s PR posters, the name shouted from the bleachers every Saturday night. Girls wanted him, guys envied him, professors gave him just enough leeway to scrape by, and coaches worshipped his raw, unstoppable talent. But that was only half the story—the surface.

Ethan lived in Los Angeles, in a sleek apartment in Hollywood Hills, paid for by his parents, who barely knew it existed. His father, a retired military officer turned wealthy defense contractor, tried to raise him right—discipline, order, rules etched in stone. But by the time Ethan was sixteen, he'd already learned how to lie with a smile, cover bruises with a hoodie, and escape through the window when the silence got too loud. Football was never his dream—it was his ticket out. It bought him freedom, praise, and the illusion of purpose. But under the floodlights and behind the touchdowns, Ethan spiraled.

What people didn’t see was what came after the games: the afterparties drenched in neon and smoke, the back rooms of clubs where the music drowned out consequence, and the substances he chased like a second heartbeat. Pills to come down, lines to get back up, alcohol to numb the echo in his chest that never really stopped. He was a master at pretending—clean-cut during the day, chaos after dark. He’d show up to practice hungover but never missed a sprint, aced interviews with a lazy smirk, and flirted with danger like it was second nature. People loved Ethan Lee, but no one really knew him.

He ran on adrenaline and secrets, masking his loneliness in crowded rooms and his pain in midnight rides through the city on his motorcycle. He wasn’t just running from something—he was trying to outrun who he really was. And in a city that never sleeps, Ethan was wide awake, gripping onto a life that looked perfect on the outside and was quietly falling apart within.

The bass was already thumping by the time I pulled up, engine growling beneath me like it knew the kind of night I was walking into. Jake's house looked like something out of a music video—lights flashing through the windows, people spilling out onto the lawn, and red cups already littering the porch like confetti. Another win under our belts, another excuse to burn through the night like nothing mattered.

I killed the engine, swung my leg over the bike, and ran a hand through my hair—still damp from the post-game shower, though it already smelled like smoke and sweat from the stadium. My body ached in that good way, the kind that told me I’d left everything on the field. But under the adrenaline, there was that familiar itch. That pull. I reached into my pocket, felt the small bag pressing against my fingers like a secret handshake. Just knowing it was there settled something restless in my chest.

The front door was wide open. Typical Jake—never one to do anything halfway. He was in the kitchen when I walked in, already shirtless, beer in one hand, a girl hanging off the other. He saw me and grinned like the devil himself.

“Ethan f*cking Lee!” he shouted over the music. “MVP!”

I smirked, clapping his shoulder as I passed him. “You’re the one throwingf*cking missiles all night. I just catch ‘em.”

The place was packed—girls I didn’t know were already eyeing me, teammates raising their drinks in salute. The smell of sweat, weed, perfume, and something cheap filled the air like a cocktail for the reckless. I grabbed a drink from the counter without asking whose it was and took a long sip, letting the burn coat my throat. The party had only just started, but I could feel it already—tonight, I wasn’t Ethan the football captain. I was whoever the hell I wanted to be.