Chapter Two

 Chris eased the door open and stepped inside, one hand tucked into his pocket. The air in the sitting room hung heavy, untouched as if time itself had stilled in his absence. His face was pallid, his crimson eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and deep furrows marred his forehead.

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the silence. The chandeliers overhead cast a bright, sterile glow, their light glinting off the polished black tiles. The bone-white armchairs sat arranged in a perfect circle, their symmetry undisturbed. Books stood in rigid, untouched stacks. The room was a world crafted by his own hands—controlled, precise, unyielding.

Loosening his tie, Chris ascended the grand staircase, fingers trailing along the iron banister. The metal was cold against his skin, biting, sending a sharp shiver up his arm. His measured steps echoed dully against the high ceiling, each footfall a quiet reminder of his solitude.

In his bedroom, he moved with practice ease, every action slow, deliberate. He placed his suitcase on the shelf beside the bed and sat, exhaling as he pulled at the knot of his tie and the fabric slid free. He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off, the damp fabric clinging like a second skin.

Barefoot now, he flexed his toes against the cool floor before gathering his clothes and heading to the bathroom. He tossed the bundle into the bin without a second thought, already stepping into the shower.

Leaning against the tiled wall, he let the water pour over him, tilting his head back as it streamed through his hair. The steady rhythm of falling droplets was the only sound. His muscles, coiled with unspoken burdens, loosened under the cascade.

My life has been quiet, solemn, and peaceful…

Chris exhaled, head resting against the wall.

Why would I let someone disrupt it?

He opened his eyes, water clinging to his lashes. A hollow ache settled in his chest—a void he had never tried to fill. A slow, wry smile curled his lips, the mask slipping like leaves in the wind.

“Christen...” he heard Alex whisper, his eyes darkening as Alex’s face surfaced in his mind. That day, he had met his gaze—hesitant, troubled.

“You have a pheochromocytoma tumour,” Alex had said, his voice unsteady. “I’m sorry, Chris, it’s rare. The good news is—it can be cured.”

Chris had felt his own brows knit together.

“What does that mean?” His voice had been quiet, measured.

Alex hesitated. “It’s a tumour in the adrenal glands. It causes adrenaline surges, leading to dangerously high blood pressure and intense physical symptoms. If left untreated... it could be life-threatening.”

“If I don’t treat it, will I die?”

A long silence. Then a nod. “It’s possible. That’s why you need surgery as soon as possible.”

Chris had seen the worry in Alex’s eyes when he shook his head.

“I don’t want to.” His voice had been eerily calm. “Maybe my time has finally come. We will all die anyway—so why should I fight it?”

“Why?”

Alex had searched his face for an answer, but Chris had merely turned and walked away.

Why?his mind whispered, insistent, demanding as if he, too, had no answer. His gaze, reflecting the water droplets, shimmered with unspoken thoughts.

A faint scent of almonds drifted through the steam, so vivid it felt real. He shut his eyes. Suddenly, fire roared behind his lids. His breath hitched. His tongue burned bitter, and his throat clogged with phantom smoke.

“No. Let go of me!”

The voice rang out in his mind, sharp and sudden.

Chris gasped, his fingers clawing at his neck. His heart pounded violently, his breath ragged and hot. The water pelted his skin, but it did nothing to smother the flames searing his mind. A voice raged inside his head. His vision swam. Smoke engulfed him in memories long buried. He coughed, breath catching on ghosts he thought were gone. Staggering out of the shower, he barely made it to his room. His fingers pressed tightly against his throat as if trying to silence the ghosts clawing at his mind. He collapsed beside the bed, the ringing of his phone a distant hiss in his ears.

He saw them—shadows in his memory—clamouring, shouting, their hands gripping his arms like shackles. The screeching of his feet against sandy ground echoed louder than the ringing phone. With trembling fingers, he reached for the bed, grasping for the device. He managed to pick up the call, but his grip failed, and the phone slipped from his hands.

It should have stayed buried. Seven years... Seven years.

Tears traced silent paths down his cheeks.

Why is it all coming back now?

“You’re a danger to yourself, Chris,” Alex’s voice echoed in his mind. “You’re not safe alone. If you’re not careful, your tumour might start triggering past memories. I doubt you can handle this on your own any more.”

Chris clenched his jaw.

This shouldn’t be happening.

His body slumped against the cold floor, the chill slicing through him like a blade.

Why are they showing their claws again?

He recalled his own smirk in the hospital corridor.

Even if I were to die tomorrow, I’ll never need anyone.

Fighting to keep his eyes open, he grasped onto that thought, onto his stubborn resolve. But his body betrayed him. His lids fell shut. His fingers loosened from his neck. And darkness swallowed him whole.

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