"Wake up, Tyler… wake up."
The words pulled him from sleep. Morning light crept through half-closed blinds, thin and uninvited, striping the disaster of his room in pale gold. He squinted, sat up slowly, legs swinging over the bed's edge—heavy burdens that had carried him this far and seemed just as tired of the arrangement as he was.
It was the same voice again. Same as every night lately—soft, insistent, familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.
"Wake up from what, exactly?"
he muttered to the empty air.
The room offered no answer, only its usual silent judgment: clothes scattered like battlefield casualties, pizza boxes leaning in unstable towers, empty bottles catching dust and light. A crime scene where the only crime was letting life slip into chaos.
With a long, weary exhale, he dragged himself to the bathroom.
Hot water cascaded over him like punishment earned and accepted. He pressed his forehead to the cool tile, waiting for steam to scour away the dream that still clung like smoke.
A man kneeling in a burning world. Eight radiant figures staring him down.
Tyler shivered despite the heat. "Who the hell was that guy?" he whispered. "And why do gods always have to be such absolute bastards."
Eventually he stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling from his skin. Water dripped from jet-black hair that clung to his face in rebellious strands. Ivory skin stretched over lean, carved muscle—nothing excessive, just enough to turn heads he never invited. Sky-blue eyes that looked like they'd seen storms and still pretended the weather was fine.
Uniform hunting followed. Red short-sleeved shirt, black pants—the apron notably absent.
"Emily's gonna murder me," he sighed. "That was the third one this year."
The kitchen air tasted of old dishes and slow rust, the leaky faucet dripping its patient countdown to disaster. He ignored it all, zeroed in on the coffee machine—one of the few loyal survivors in this apartment. One clean mug. Black coffee, no sugar, no mercy.
He carried it to the balcony, his only sanctuary. A gentle breeze greeted him, sunlight warm and golden, the city sprawling below like a living thing—buildings clawing skyward, roads twisting like serpents, people already rushing toward whatever waited to devour them.
Dead plants lined the railing like tiny brown skeletons.
"Supposed to bring good fortune," he told them dryly. "Or was it happiness. One of those lies."
He took a sip. His face twisted.
"Bitter as hell. Tastes like life for sure."
One last glance at the golden chaos below, then he downed the rest in a single burning gulp. It was time to join the rush.
***********
The bike roared beneath him, wind whipping his hair into wild chaos, whistling past his ears as the world blurred into streaks of color and motion. No helmet. Just the thrill, the risk, the grin that widened with every reckless lean.
Tires screamed around a sharp corner. His phone buzzed against his thigh.
He fished it out one-handed, glanced at the screen. Adrian.
"Hey, bro. Yeah, I'm ten minutes out. Coukd you help me tell Emily I lost her apron again—but I'll pay her back, swear. See you soon."
He hung up, pocketed the phone, leaned into another turn that left honking cars fading behind. "Don't mind me," he laughed into the wind. "Just a guy trying to get to work on time."
The smirk lingered. Life without risk was barely life at all.
"What's the worst that could hap—
*********
The café thrummed like a living engine, orders flying thick and relentless, giving no one time to breathe or remember they had lives beyond steamed milk and perfect foam.
Adrian moved through the storm with effortless grace—blonde hair catching light, ocean eyes calm amid the chaos, smile warm enough to thaw the coldest morning. Red shirt, black pants, sneakers silent on tile. He took an old man's order, pen gliding smooth across the notepad.
"Right away, sir."
He pinned the slip for the kitchen, leaned against the wall just long enough to wipe sweat from his brow. Phone out. Dialed.
It rang twice before Tyler's voice cut off mid-sentence, line going dead.
Adrian stared at the screen a moment, then turned to the woman behind the prep counter.
Emily looked up, chestnut curls escaping her ponytail, warm brown eyes curious behind the controlled frenzy. Apron tied tight like armor.
"What's wrong, Adrian?"
He offered a weak smile. "Just talked to Tyler. He'll be here in ten. Also… he lost your apron. Again. But he swears he'll pay for it."
Her mouth opened, then closed.
A smile spread across her face—slow, calm, beautiful in the most dangerous way.
Adrian's stomach dropped.
"Maybe I shouldn't have delivered that last part."