Imagine a bomb chained to your wrist. It’s been there most of your life, a noise akin to a heart monitor sounding day and night. A countdown. A countdown, by the way, that you can’t see. Shitty right? That's Aiden's life. He was a fucking great architect. Without this goddamn diagnosis he'd probably be in the Greek Resolve, a luxury architectural firm making six figures.

Aiden Lowe leaned against the cold railing of the hospital rooftop, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke swirl and disappear into the evening air. The city sprawled out below him, its lights twinkling as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Just hours ago, he had been given a death sentence: a year left to live.

"Well, isn’t this the picture of health? Smoking on a hospital rooftop," a voice said, dripping with sarcasm. Aiden glanced over his shoulder to see a young woman with brown hair and piercing grey eyes. She was sitting in a wheelchair, a nasal cannula feeding her oxygen, and she was painting on an easel propped in front of her.

Aidens lips curled up into a cat like grin. "I'll have you know I'm the very picture of health." he clipped.