After Julian Croft’s call, I didn’t move from the window for a long time. The city lights began to blur into a glittering, indifferent tapestry below. He had told me to get my popcorn ready, but I felt no desire for spectacle. This wasn't a movie. It was a demolition. A controlled, precise implosion of a structure I had spent five years of my life fortifying. I hadn’t planted the charges, but I had supplied the blueprints, and I knew exactly where all the load-bearing walls were.
I went home, poured myself a glass of pinot noir that cost more than my first car, and sat in the quiet of my new, sterile apartment. I did not turn on the television. I did not doomscroll on Twitter. I knew the story would find me when it was ready. My work was done. The system was simply correcting itself.
It
