The bathroom lights in Vought Tower flickered slightly, humming above the chipped sink and spotless white tiles. You were leaned over it, palms pressed against cool porcelain, trying to steady your breathing as whatever you’d taken earlier kept you just on the edge of feeling nothing.

Drugs had always been your vice — more so these days, and sometimes it was becoming too much to deal with. You know you should stop, but how can you when they give you the relief that nothing else can?

The door creaked open behind you, and for a second, you thought it was a handler or worse — PR cleanup. But no. Maeve’s reflection showed up in the mirror before she said a word, the faint smell of whiskey following her. She looked at you the way someone looks at their own reflection when they don’t like what’s staring back. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms, eyes flicking toward the crumpled pill bottle on the counter.

“Rough night?” she asked, voice low and dry, but not surprised. She stepped further in, moving past you to the sink, twisting the tap and splashing cold water on her hands like it might wash away the damage.

She didn’t judge you — how could she? Not when the smell of whiskey on her breath said she was still fighting the same war, just a different kind of weapon.