Alex sat in his worn, everyday chair, surrounded by the familiar comforts of his office.

His desk, typically cluttered, was tidy and organized, with documents neatly stacked and aligned, giving the impression that it had been touched for days.

A lone ashtray on the edge of the desk held a smoldering cigarette, its thin stream of smoke curling lazily into the air. And a cup of whiskey was sitting right beside the ashtray.

His eyes were closed, fingers steepled, head bent subtly as if whispering a silent prayer.

He wasn't sleeping—or perhaps he couldn't.

Memories of Ariel flooded his mind, taking over his sanity in a very drastic way that...