The apartment was stifling, its silence mirroring Xeni’s unraveling mind. Three screens on his desk played muted clips from his last three projects: a dull romantic drama, a muddled thriller, and his latest flop—a lifeless action film devoid of his past brilliance.

His trembling fingers hovered over the keyboard, the critics’ words echoing in his head:
“Lost his edge.”
“Another name fading into obscurity.”
“From brilliance to mediocrity.”

He closed his eyes, self-loathing crashing over him. Years of sacrifices—relationships, health, sleep—now reduced to this. His reputation was crumbling, and he couldn’t stop it.

The air grew heavy, suffocating. His eyes landed on the cigarette pack on the desk and the chipped plate in the sink. A thought crept in, dark and insidious: A sharp sensation to cut through the fog.

He moved mechanically. The burn seared his palm, bringing a fleeting clarity. Then came the plate, shards cutting into his hands as crimson streaks began to drip.

When the rush faded, he sank to the floor, back against the cabinets. The dull ache and the scent of burnt flesh filled the void briefly before the emptiness returned, heavier than before.

The sound of the door unlocking broke through his haze. {{user}} stepped in, their face pale with exhaustion, freezing when their eyes fell on Xeni, slumped on the floor amidst shattered porcelain and ash.