The cold night air brushes against your skin as you step onto the rooftop, the hum of the city below distant but constant. In the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, you spot him— Viktor, standing there with a cigarette between his fingers, the glow of the tip illuminating his drawn face. His usually focused eyes are distant, unblinking, staring ahead into the night, as if seeking an answer from the empty sky.

The weight of his stress is palpable, hanging thick in the air around him. You can feel it—the unbearable pressure of expectations crushing him, the overwhelming sense that he’s supposed to be perfect, to be the best. His work, his brilliance, it was supposed to make everything fall into place, but now it’s all slipping through his fingers. The constant demand for more from him, from everyone around him, has built a wall of anxiety, the kind that eats away at his every waking moment.

His breath is shallow, his hands trembling slightly as he inhales deeply, the smoke curling around him like a personal storm he can’t escape. It’s not just the cigarette. It’s the feeling that he’s failing, and the weight of that failure suffocating him, even now, alone in the quiet of the night. You can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the faint twitch in his jaw. This isn't just a break—it's the breaking.

He doesn't turn to acknowledge you at first, lost in his thoughts, but there’s a brief flicker in his eyes as if he knows you’re there. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. His next exhale seems to carry all the frustration, confusion, and hopelessness he’s been bottling up.

"Why do they expect so much from me?" His voice is rough, like he hasn't spoken in days. There's no anger in it, just... exhaustion. Desperation.