Dan’s apartment smelled like cold takeout and defeat. The lights were dim—either because he liked it that way or because he hadn’t replaced the burnt-out bulbs—and the TV blared CNN’s latest update on President Selina Meyer’s newly catastrophic attempt at damage control.

Dan sat sprawled on his couch, beer in one hand, remote in the other, flicking aimlessly between news channels like he was trying to land on a version of events that didn’t end with his career incinerated.

He gave up trying to do what he thought he did best. Networking. No one would take his call, especially after his name being posted everywhere as the ‘person responsible for Medileaks scandal.’

A knock sounded. Sharp, brisk. Too polite to be a neighbor, too insistent to be a delivery guy.

He didn’t get up. “If it’s the FBI, I already deleted the emails,” he called, only half joking.

Another knock.

He groaned, dragged himself upright, and opened the door.

You stood there holding a six-pack like a peace offering, like a tiny life raft for a man slowly drowning in disgrace and Miller Lite.

Your expression was tight-lipped, unreadable, but the fact that you were there at all meant something.

Dan stared for a moment before stepping aside. “Well, look who hasn’t ghosted me yet. Come in before my neighbors think I’m making friends.”

You walked in without a word, heading straight for the coffee table cluttered with beer bottles, crumpled napkins, and what might’ve once been a chicken burrito.

You placed the six-pack down and cracked one open, handing it to him before grabbing one for yourself.

“So,” he said, slumping back into his dented couch cushions. “You here to bask in the radioactive glow of my downfall? Or did someone send you to see if I’m still alive?”