Wallace Bryton didn’t sound like himself when he called.

No jokes. No forced enthusiasm. Just a pause—long enough to make you check your phone to see if the call had dropped.

“I’m quitting the podcast,” he said finally. You blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” A dry laugh followed, sharp and humorless. “I want to do one last episode. But not public. Just… us.”

That should’ve been your first warning. You met him in the small recording room he’d always insisted felt “more authentic.”

Same old microphones. Same clutter. But Wallace was different—quieter, eyes darting like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear.

“You ready?” he asked, already pressing record.

You nodded slowly.

“What’s the angle?” you asked. “Retirement speech? Bittersweet farewell?”

He smirked faintly. “Something like that.” The red light blinked on.

Wallace leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the table. “You ever notice how people think they really know you just because they hear your voice?”

You frowned. “I guess.”

“They don’t,” he continued. “They hear a version. The funny one. The sarcastic one. The one that keeps things light.”

You laughed nervously. “That is you.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“No,” Wallace said quietly. “That’s who I pretend to be so no one asks the wrong questions.”

The room felt colder

“You okay?” you asked. “We can stop if—” “I’ve always chased stories about people who disappear,” he interrupted. “I thought it was curiosity. But it’s not.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s envy.”

Your stomach tightened. “Wallace…”

“Sometimes,” he went on, voice calm, “I think about how easy it would be to just… stop being who everyone expects. No audience. No explanations.”