I didn’t sleep.
Sleep was for men with peace, and I’d traded that a long time ago for power and silence.
The city looked soft from the penthouse windows. Fragile. Like if I breathed too hard, it would crack.
The glass in my hand was sweating. Scotch untouched.
I watched the streets for hours, waiting for the ache in my chest to harden into something I could use. Rage. Strategy. Anything but longing.
But it didn’t.
It just sat there. Thick and heavy.
And beneath it, something quieter. Something older.
Shame.
*
Flashback – Nine Years Ago
Montauk, before Emily died.
The house was louder back then.
Laughter spilled through the walls like water. Dylan was drunk, slurring theories about the future, biotech empires, programmable memories, synthetic limbs. Emily was wearing red, baref
