You okay?

And he felt wasted.

He woke up.

In his room. Alone. Nude.

A single barred window stared out onto a narrow air shaft, breathing in the acidic stench of city pollution.

Justin blinked.

The cheap coffee on the counter had a metallic aftertaste. The threadbare mattress felt like sandpaper on his skin. Crumbs from last night's bagel clung to the sheets, crunching beneath him every time he moved.

But he didn't care. Just stared at the wall—the brick so close it could press against him if it dared. Faded graffiti peeked through grime, and every now and then, a pigeon's shadow flitted past the glass.

His lashes twitched. He rustled for comfort. One arm fell limp beside him.

He let the filthy lyrics of Celebs Lance echo through the room. Justin closed his eyes and let the beat lull him back to sleep.

Clock ringing.

He growled. His face scrunched against the morning sun. His head was lumped under a pillow, his body arched naked and aching.

He wanted nothing. Nothing more.

Clock ringing.

His frown deepened. He reached out to smash the monster but it kept shrieking from just out of reach. With a curse, Justin rolled out of bed and slapped it silent.

A good feeling for a Monday morning—dancing around with battered pants, singing with a toothbrush, splashing cold tap water across his face.

The house had no proper bathroom. His rinse was a ritual. A splash of gin-scented cologne masked the odor. The morning breath. The sweat. The shame.

"Yeahs... Babe..."

William Thomasville wasn't a singer. But he sang anyway. About Justin's favorite things—how to hack a woman in bed and keep tapping till morning. Crude, vulgar, banned in half the states.

But women loved him.

So did Justin's mother.

She once said she'd divorce her husband if William ever looked her way.

"Aha—"

His eyes darted to the clock, startled.

"Shit. I'm late."

Now it was all panic. Justin grabbed his car keys, his coat, his hat. His bag. His camera. He wrestled into his sandals, choked himself with his tie.

"Fuck!!"

He bolted out the door.

A beep from his old Nokia made him slap the phone to his ear—but it was just a text. Unnamed number. He ignored it.

He ran. Ran hard.

Two blocks over, he nearly got clipped by a cab but made it to his old silver Toyota Corolla. Breath short. Heart racing.

The building groaned behind him—wooden beams creaking, a radiator clanking like it needed mercy, and sirens weaving through the city's midnight veins.

He'd survive.

He always did.

The phone beeped again, but this time he just pressed the gas.

---

New York City was a living mosaic.

Its heartbeat was noise.

Jazz made from horns. Screams. Spilled coffee. Grinding tires.

Cyclists cursing cars they couldn't see.

Joggers sweating like broken fountains.

Conversations bounced off walls like chewed gum and gravel.

The city reeked of contradiction.

Justin didn't even slow down for the roasted peanuts a vendor was shouting about.

His car sped through, leaving civilization behind, breaking north toward upstate—toward trees and silence and whatever the hell counted as peace.

His hands tightened on the wheel. His eyes stayed forward.

---

[Sound cue: upbeat news jingle fades]

"You're listening to MetroWake 101.2. It's 8:05 on a sunny Thursday in New York City. I'm Maria Lane bringing you the latest—"

Sharp chiming.

"In health news — officials are still investigating a strange cluster of symptoms reported across five states. Over 70 cases linked to what doctors are calling a rare neurological response. Symptoms range from involuntary tremors and skin discoloration to vivid hallucinations. The CDC has yet to classify the illness, but maintains there is, quote, 'no cause for public concern at this time.'"

Clicking sounds in the background. Ambient newsroom chatter.

Maria let out a soft laugh. Shifted tone.

"Just a little deja vu, right? Nothing like a mysterious illness to kick off spring."

Beat.

Neutral voice again.

"Meanwhile, the White House canceled this morning's briefing after President Marland was reportedly taken to Walter Reed for what his team described as 'an unscheduled medical checkup.' No further details have been released."

A low electronic pulse buzzes. Justin presses the switch.

FIELD REPORTER (remote):

"There's speculation, but nothing confirmed. Anonymous staffers say the President showed signs of disorientation and memory loss during last night's closed security meeting."

Quick static pop. Signal wavers. Returns.

Maria:

"Well, there you have it. We'll keep you updated. Coming up — traffic on the FDR and why pigeons are stealing lattes in Midtown…"

Jingle fades into light pop music.

Justin snorted.

"Hypocrites."

His eyes flicked to the side of the road—just in time to catch a little girl standing halfway onto the street.

"What the hell's a kid doing here?"

Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

But he didn't stop.

He was already late.

But the child…

She didn't move.

Didn't flinch at the roar of the car or the blur of motion as he passed.

Just stood there on the gravel shoulder, facing the road.

Her hair was tangled, falling in ropey strands around a face too still.

And in her small hands, she clutched a nook paddle—gibbling it like it was the last toy on Earth.

_______