Five days passed without ceremony.
They did not announce themselves as a turning point. They arrived the way pressure always did in Zane's life, quietly, disguised as momentum. Meetings stacked. Emails bred overnight. Deadlines slid closer not because anyone demanded it, but because he allowed them to.
The cold did not leave.
It lingered instead, settling into his chest like something that had found a reason to stay.
On the sixth morning, Zane woke with his throat raw and his head heavy, the kind of ache that made light feel intrusive. He sat up slowly, one hand braced against the mattress, waiting for the brief dizziness to pass. The penthouse windows were still dark, the city below only beginning to stir. He coughed once, sharp and dry, then again, longer this time, his chest tightening in protest.
He stood anyway.
