“Hello, Mr. Arsene, your wife—”
Arsene was already like a man possessed, his motorcycle tearing down the highway with reckless speed, weaving dangerously between cars as if the world had narrowed to a single, blinding point of fear. He didn’t care about the angry honks that followed him, or the curses that trailed after his wake. His mind was chaos, an uncontrollable storm since the moment he picked up the call from his wife’s family.
He had been in the middle of a shoot when the call came. One brief sentence with fragmented, urgent, and terrifying was enough to shatter every ounce of composure he had. In an instant, Arsene became the most unprofessional man alive, abandoning the set, leaving the cameras and crew behind as he sprinted for his bike. He prayed, if prayers could even reach
