Jack jolted upright, a sharp gasp escaping before he could stop it. "Ouuuuucch!" The pain surged through him, radiating from his neck and back, as if every muscle had turned to stone. His body resisted even the smallest movement, every shift sending jagged waves of discomfort down his spine. He winced, carefully peeling himself away from the desk. The back of his neck throbbed as he rubbed it, the muscles stiff and knotted, refusing to loosen. He tried to turn his head, but a sharp pain halted him, leaving him frozen in place.
Something had yanked him out of sleep, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what. Maybe it was the sheer discomfort, the threat of waking up completely paralyzed if he’d stayed slumped over any longer. The desk lamp still burned, casting its steady glow across the room, the only sign of life in the dark silence. Jack squinted at the blinds, the outside world still wrapped in darkness. His phone buzzed, the harsh light from the screen cutting through the room—2:03 a.m. He must have drifted off, his body collapsing into an awkward sprawl over the desk.
Had he tried to write? The thought flickered briefly, but the fog of sleep still clouded his mind. He nudged the mouse, the computer’s hum breaking the stillness, and the screen blinked to life. A blank document greeted him, its emptiness mocking him. If he had tried to write, it had led to nothing—just another empty page and the familiar weight of failure.
As consciousness slowly returned, the memories of the previous day began to piece themselves together, coming into focus like a developing photograph. He remembered getting out of the car, then running—running until his lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. He remembered the bar, the dim lights, and the faint smell of stale beer and despair. He’d thought alcohol might numb the existential dread gnawing at him, but by his second drink, he knew it was a futile effort. The booze couldn’t drown out the noise in his head, couldn’t erase the truth of the mess he was tangled in. The cab ride home was a blur, a hazy memory that seemed distant now.
But more pressing than all of that was what today held. In just a few hours, Demi would call. She would summon him back into the world he was desperately trying to escape, pulling him into whatever schemes and abominable tasks she had concocted this time. He could almost hear her voice, dripping with that mix of charm and menace that she wielded so expertly. He would have to venture out again—for his own sake, if nothing else. Who knew what new depths she would drag him into, what further compromises would be demanded of him, all in the name of maintaining his so-called success?
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The weight of those expectations began to crush down on him again. The relentless pressure to be a "star," to perform for everyone, was stifling. It was slowly killing him, eating away at his soul piece by piece. He couldn’t let it consume him, not completely. Not yet.
With a groan, he rose from the chair, every bone in his body protesting, creaking like an old, weathered ship in a storm. He had no clear plan, no step-by-step guide on how to escape the life he was trapped in, but the urge to move was overwhelming. It was a desperate need to do something—anything—to break free from the cycle he was caught in.
Jack gathered his things almost on autopilot, his movements quick and thoughtless, fueled by a restless energy. By the time he realized what he was doing, he stood outside his front door, a small travel bag in one hand, his phone and car keys in the other. He had no idea where he was going, no plan in mind. It felt reckless, maybe even dangerous, but there was no turning back now. The same impulse had sparked the night before, when he’d run along the sidewalk after leaving the bar. Now, that flicker had grown into a blaze. This time, he wasn’t just running—he was fleeing, ready to escape as fast and as far as he could.
He hopped into his car and sped off, barely glancing toward the gate. At this hour, only a few persistent paparazzi lingered outside, snapping photos with half-hearted curiosity rather than the usual frenzy. It seems nothing scandalous had happened last night—just a quiet night of drinking—so there was little for them to feast on. Their cameras flashed as he passed, trying to catch something, anything, but Jack didn’t bother to acknowledge them. He kept his eyes on the road, focused on the asphalt ahead.
Once free of the estate’s looming gates, he hesitated, foot hovering over the brake pedal. Should he turn back? The rational part of his mind whispered that he should go home, deal with whatever fallout awaited him. But something deeper—something primal and defiant—pushed him forward, urging him to leave it all behind. With a sharp breath, he pressed down on the accelerator, choosing the unknown over the predictable.
Jack drove for what felt like hours, the city lights fading in his rearview mirror until he was alone on an endless stretch of road that seemed to lead nowhere. The city was far behind him now, swallowed by the distance, and only the vast, open road lay ahead. As the city disappeared, the space around him widened, the oppressive weight lifting slightly with each passing mile.