The morning dawned with a cruel kind of clarity over Los Angeles, the kind where the sun cuts through smog like a scalpel and leaves everything exposed.
Alex woke to the vibration of his phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with notifications that had been piling up since three a.m. He reached for it before Ethan could stir, thumbing the screen awake to a flood of alerts: ESPN push notifications, Twitter trends, text messages from his agent, his coach, even his mother's safe-house guard. The top headline screamed in bold red: "Suns Star Alex Ramirez Misses Critical Practice – Gang Ties Rumors Surface Amid Playoff Push." Below it, a grainy photo of him leaving the warehouse two nights ago, blood on his lip, Ethan's arm around his waist in the background. Someone had sold the image. Someone had twisted the story.
He felt the mattress shift as Ethan woke, blinking sleep from his eyes, blond hair a chaotic halo against the white pillow.
