KILLIAN.
It started as a quiet ache.
The kind that crept in slowly, like a lantern running low on oil. At first I thought it was only guilt. I deserved every bit of it after the things I said to her in that corridor and the way I let her walk out in silence. But this feeling kept growing heavier, deeper, carving out a hollow space inside my chest that no amount of whiskey or pacing could fill.
I sat alone in my study at 3:12 AM. The room felt too large, too empty. Moonlight sliced through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the heavy oak desk. Blank monitors stared back at me like dead eyes. The half-empty bottle of whiskey sat untouched, the glass beside it still clean. Sleep had become a stranger. Food tasted like ash. Every breath reminded me that something vital was slippi
