Page 4

Milo was dead.

Leaf felt his blood drain from his face, leaving him feeling like an empty shell. He stood amidst a nightmare that he knew was all too real.

How did I get here?

Ambulance, police, flashing lights, sirens wailing, and him trapped in a silent movie.

Time held no meaning.

Milo is dead.

This fact gradually seeped through him. He needed time to absorb it, to let it penetrate to his core.

The shock slowly wore off, and he found himself next to a police car.

“We suspect a deal gone wrong,” a policeman said.

Had he just spoken to him?

Confused, Leaf scanned the street. In the open door of a patrol car, he spotted Tristan—or at least what remained of him. Leaf saw the toll that Milo's actions had taken. It was more than just Milo’s life lost on this street. Like a ghost, Tristan sat there, staring into space, a blanket draped over his shoulders, his bloodied hands resting on his knees.

Leaf squeezed his eyes shut, but it was futile. Shadows danced everywhere, darting through his field of vision. Cops. Medics. Police tape. Onlookers. From all sides, they crowded in, eager to catch a glimpse of the unfolding drama.

Men and women craning their necks for a better view, their expressions twisted in grimaces and fear.

And Milo, covered with a white sheet.

Leaf clapped a hand over his mouth and staggered, his chest tightening as if squeezed by an invisible force. Breathing became labored. He stood amidst a mighty storm, its winds battering him from all sides. Feeling powerless, his body trembled uncontrollably as he sank to his knees, bracing himself on the unforgiving asphalt, gasping for air in sheer panic.

Monday

Today

2

–––––

Tristan

“I want to write and make music. Get my songs out there and play concerts everywhere. I want to show my fans that I’m still very much alive.”

Tristan forced a smile, flashing his white teeth, but he felt it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Could he convince the psychiatrist with just that? If he reminded himself enough of what had always been his plan, maybe he would find his old self again. His words weren’t a lie. After the incident with his brother, he had lost his drive and forgotten how committed he was about it.

Unimpressed, Dr. Snider scribbled something in his file.

How absurd, Tristan thought, running his hand through his black locks. A sharp pain shot through his right forearm, unpleasantly reminding him that his body was still healing.

“Mr. James,” the psychiatrist began, seeking his gaze. “You crashed into a house without any restraint and miraculously avoided life-threatening injuries. You clearly had more luck than sense. That wasn’t just a whim of a rock star. So please, don’t try to convince me that you’re fully motivated to return to your old life as if nothing happened.”

“One does what one must.” Tristan’s voice was too weak to be convincing.

“Do I sense a certain resignation?”

It was impossible to withstand the piercing gaze of the middle-aged man. Tristan shifted in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and wondering if he had exaggerated. Since the doctor remained silent, apparently waiting for a response, he cleared his throat and briefly considered how much of his true self he could reveal without destroying himself.

“Okay, listen, you just need to sign this paper and you’ll be rid of me. I’ll even leave the city.”

Snider frowned in disbelief, looking far from happy, and flipped through his notes. “Last Friday, your manager called me. What was her name again?”