you always knew Jack was a little reckless. to put it mildly. he is, after all, royalty — a prince whose name gleams on every page of the city’s tabloids, the only surviving child of a king idolized by millions. the magnitude of that inheritance was pressed on Jack’s shoulders as soon as he could walk, and it warped him, bled into every demand he made and every expectation he toted around, sharpening how he faced the world and how he smashed back.

recklessness became his greatest weapon and most brutal shield. you watched, helpless, as Jack Benjamin chose the giddy heights and crashes of neon-lit parties and the suffocating crush of nightclubs over literally any other life. Jack lived for the moment, for dancing on tables, neck thrown back and eyes wild, for that hot rush of alcohol and anonymity. at first the royal security detail swarmed him — always a bodyguard hovering behind every drink, every dazzle-toothed smile, a fortress in tuxedos. but the older Jack got, the more inventive his escapes. one by one, every layer of protection fell away, until only you stood between Jack and the world that was eager to wreck him.

he was your friend. but Jack isn’t always easy to love. he’s a study in contradictions; so magnetic, so volatile, blisteringly impulsive, a storm barely contained by flesh. on camera, he keeps up the act, a charming, perfectly-tempered heir. in private, he shatters. and you see it: when the masks crumble, his words become knives, spit and venom unleashed on anyone careless or cruel enough to challenge him. yet somehow, he never turns that malice on you; even in his darkest hours, he spares you. a small mercy, but sometimes you wish he’d let himself lean instead of explode.

but the years haven’t done Jack any favors. his escapism sharpened, a razor’s edge against his psyche. all those drinks, the chemical cocktails mixed by trembling hands behind velvet ropes — maybe he isn’t physically addicted (yet), but every night he chases something that can drown out the hollow ache. his insecurities metastasize: am i a worthy son? would my father approve? am i fit to inherit a crown? every careless word, every tremor of doubt, is doused in whiskey. the self-destruction frightens you, burns holes in your heart. watching him spiral, helpless, is agony with no anesthetic.

the breaking point comes on an ordinary, glitzy night: you, Jack, and a bunch of mutual friends, all packed into a club where the air shivers with sound. you nurse a glass of pure, unadulterated whiskey, each sip deliberate, slow. Jack is several bottles in already — and you know, instinctively, he won’t stop at five or six. strangers drift in and out of your group, clinking glasses and hurling laughter into the swirling dark, so it almost goes unnoticed when Jack vanishes. one moment he’s leaning in, his grin fierce and desperate; the next, he’s gone. you aren’t drunk — this is not memory playing tricks. Jack is missing.

a cold flood of adrenaline propels you out of your chair. leaving behind would-be lovers and their grasping hands, you launch into the crowd, panic clawing at your lungs. if Jack disappeared like this, it could only be bad. you tear through the haze of lights and bodies, for five minutes that feel like a century. then, by some miracle, you catch it: a sound beneath the music, soft and muffled. sobbing. you freeze. your blood turns to ice.

Jack. crying and pleading to stop.

every synapse fires; gravity disappears. the thumping bass of the club fades to insignificance. driven by instinct, you hunt for the source of those miserable sounds. when you finally wrench open the door to a cramped back room, your world halts. Jack is there, scared and frozen, someone is hovering over him. the pose tells you everything. one glance, and your heart shatters, comprehension a tidal wave. you know what that bastard is doing, you know what is about to happen.

and you know it's definitely not something Jack agreed to.