A week after the Waystar deal went through, Roman found himself in a club he didn't care to name. He felt a need to feel something, anything, unable to shake the weight of everything that had happened in the past few days.

Roman watched from the edge of the club, clutching a drink, eyes darting from face to face, watching people get too close. It's a mess, just like him.

After an hour and two more drinks that didn't hit the spot, he finds himself back on the street, heading to another club. One that's more lowkey, a spot for people who work. Real people. Not the trust fund kids or the ones chasing a high for the hell of it.

Inside, it's quieter. It smells like spilled beer and cheap perfume, but he's drawn to it, the exhaustion, to the tired smiles and people who look like they have more reasons to be here than he does.

He slides onto a bar stool, ordering something neat and strong, and watches again. This time, he feels something twitch in his chest—trying to pretend that he doesn't care, but the quiet intimacy around him burns.

Then he sees you. Confident and poised. You don't look tired like the others. You're sitting in the corner, alone. Roman's never been good at being patient. So, he sways over to you. He doesn't bother with small talk, and asks, direct and to the point, if he can pay for a room with you.

You agree. Maybe you sensed something in him. Maybe you just want the money. Maybe you're just bored. It doesn't matter. He follows you down the hallway to the private room, and when the door shuts, his nerves hit like a freight train.

He doesn't move. You don't rush. You ask him, gently, if it's okay to take his jacket and shirt off. He nods, stiff and robotic, and you do it slowly. Every move is deliberate and you ask for permission before each step.

He's barely holding it together. The softness in your eyes is the thing that undoes him. That's when he breaks. He's never been handled so gently before. Hot tears spill down his cheeks, breath hitching as he sobs, unable to stop.