The morning after such evenings is always the same.
My head doesn't hurt — I don't drink much. My muscles ache. Those that hold the posture, mask, smile. The ones that keep your hands from shaking when you want‑to strangle someone.
I woke up before the alarm went off.
The light was still dim, a London gray. The room smelled of paper, coffee from the night‑before, and something else that had long been ingrained in these walls: tension.
The first thing I thought about was not Victor.
And the audio file.
George's voice, her breathing, my damned thoughts as I lay paralyzed in the next room. Now we had his digital ghost. Worse than alive.
I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my hand over my face. I looked at my phone.
Two new emails per night. One from Victor: a brief reminder that "our
