The soft sound of birdsong pulled Jack from sleep, their peaceful melodies coaxing him back into consciousness. He lay still, eyes closed, letting the calm wash over him for a few moments before his thoughts began to stir. Where was he? The hotel. Sarah. Slowly, the memories of how he’d ended up here surfaced, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

He remembered the suffocating weight of his room back in LA, the way the constant invasions of his life had driven him to the brink. The sense of urgency that had gripped him—stuffing a bag with whatever he could find, getting in the car, and leaving. Demi’s anger hadn’t been far from his mind, but he’d pushed it aside. Not ignored it, really, just... avoided it. He knew if he’d answered her calls, if he’d let her get through, she would have broken his resolve. So he’d turned off his phone somewhere along the way, blocking out everything that could pull him back.

By now, she was probably losing her mind, frantically trying to figure out where he’d gone. But for the first time in a long time, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was free—at least for now. No paparazzi had followed him, no one here knew who he was. This place felt like a breath of air after years of suffocation.

The car had given him trouble, but that was the least of his concerns. He had no clear destination anyway. All he knew was that he wasn’t going back.

Jack had never really explored the country he was born into. His entire life had been focused on clawing his way out of the poverty that had shaped him. It wasn’t just material lack that had constrained him—it was the smallness of his world, the weight of survival that crushed his dreams. He had one goal, always looming above him: wealth. Success. A way out.

Art, books, writing—he loved them, but he couldn't afford to love them for their own sake. They had to be more than passion; they had to be tools. If they didn’t offer a solution to his biggest problem—poverty—they were useless. Writing had become his lifeline, the only thing that could pull him out of the abyss. And when success finally came, he grabbed hold of it like a drowning man. But the cost... the cost had been high.

His mind wandered further back, to the beginning of it all. College. Third year. That night.

He hadn’t been one for frat parties, but something about this one had felt different. The energy had shifted in the early hours, strange and dark. As the lights dimmed and candles flickered to life, most of the guests had started to leave, unsettled by the eerie atmosphere. But Jack had stayed.

Then, a figure appeared—a tall man in a black cloak, his eyes burning with something fierce and unnatural. Jack remembered the way the room had fallen into a heavy silence, the guests hushed, unsure whether to run or stay.

They were asked a single question: Do you want more?

Most people fled, but Jack had stepped forward, drawn in by something he couldn’t explain. He looked into the stranger’s fiery eyes, feeling his own hunger burning beneath the fear that threatened to rise. He didn’t flinch, didn’t turn away. He wanted out, and this man seemed like a doorway to something else. Something greater.

“I want it all,” Jack had said, his voice steady, his resolve stronger than his fear.

It had all started there. That night. That moment. The first step on a path that had brought him to where he was now—alone, running from a life that had consumed him.

There had been only four strangers left in that dark, smoky room, each boy hidden behind a mask, facing the man in the black cloak. The air had been thick with something unspoken, a sense that they were standing on the edge of something irreversible. The man before them—the so-called "Supreme Leader"—held a strange glass globe in one hand, a staff in the other. He looked like he had stepped out of some ancient ritual.

Jack had nothing to lose. Nothing at all. Even his education was borrowed, funded by money his parents had groveled to secure. They would work their entire lives, toiling to pay back the tuition for him and his siblings. From nothing to nothing—that’s what it felt like.

The man in the cloak had asked Jack a question, though it wasn’t about money. That was what he wanted, after all—wealth, security, an escape. But the man hadn’t asked for that. He wanted a “seed of trade,” something to root the future wealth Jack desired. Wealth needed a foundation, a story that people could point to. The man wanted to know what Jack loved.

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Writing. It had always been writing. Words, stories, the way they captured life and emotion—writing was the only thing Jack had ever truly cared about. And that was what he offered.

The man’s eyes had gleamed with something unreadable, and he nodded, satisfied. The incantations began, whispered in the smoky darkness. Then came the kiss—first on his forehead, then between his eyes. The sensation was immediate: burning, searing through him, then fading to cold, and finally, a deep numbness.

Jack had felt it settle into him, like a seed planted deep within his soul. Something had shifted that night, setting the course for everything that would come after.

Jack woke up alone in that empty frat room early the next morning, feeling different. He couldn't explain what it was, but it was just that—different. He went to his dorm and just began writing. He just had the urge to. Still, it didn't feel like his urge. It felt like someone else's, but he couldn't help but make it his own. When he looked at his laptop screen, words had pulled there that blew his mind. It was so much...so put together...so much more organized than the scraps and pieces he wrote here and there when he was bored. It was good, and it was steamy. It was hot.

His luck with the ladies suddenly rocketed to levels he had only dreamed about.

And with every seduction came inspiration for another story. Jack wanted to attribute these changes to his own abilities. Sometimes he would pretend that the night at the party never happened. But he remembered. He knew.

Jack met Demi about a month later. A ‘chance’ meeting in a coffee shop. He had his laptop out and had been working on a story. She sat behind him and read what he was writing. She interrupted to tell him she thought it was great work and that she had connections in the publishing industry. They quickly sorted it out that she would be his manager.

Somehow, Demi was always there to help him keep going, especially at his lowest moments. The drugs, drinks, and women may not have been the conventional healthy mode of helping, but he trusted her to know what he needed. She always let him know that she was the only one there for him, and he had come to believe it.

She set up the meetings, got the contracts signed, negotiated brand placement, organized his entire career and even life. She did it all with so much professionalism because they both were not ignorant of the tense sexual energy that was always between them, but she never geared them toward doing anything about it. She knew that play could interfere with the work and so she helped them keep things in control. They could have devoured each other but they each had their role.

Jack thought of Demi as his angel, she must have been sent to him. But he had to admit, if she was indeed sent to him she was something lower than an angel, just considering who would have been doing the sending. But to him she was an angel. His life had soared higher and higher because of her, and he didn't take any of it for granted, though she could have her excesses at times.

Yet, there he was, disappointing and hurting her again by running away. He could just imagine how ashamed of him she would feel, going away and leaving the work he had dedicated his life to. She wouldn't be able to comprehend such a level of unprofessionalism. To her the job was everything. She accepted the role and so had he. They should succeed or die in the attempt. Jack could just see her prim and proper disposition behind his closed eyes as she sat him down and reiterated the facts about the celebrity life he was in. The fans had to be satisfied, she instructed. There was no choice but to keep making everyone happy and fulfilled. And so he had to cut his hair a certain way, dress a certain way, look a certain way, smile a certain way, talk a certain way, write a certain way, and...

Sigh.

Where did it all end?

Where did the breaks come for a man who carried so much for so many? Where was the moment he could simply breathe? For Demi, there was no such thing. This was the life Jack had chosen, she always reminded him, and he had to live with it.

No, Jack thought, Demi, I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.

He sighed and turned onto his side. The bed beneath him creaked softly, but it held his weight. Its firmness felt solid, real—far from the luxury of his life back home. Here, everything felt different, quieter, as if the world had finally stopped spinning. The hours of deep sleep had left him strangely refreshed, a clarity settling in his bones. The silence of his phone was a relief. He’d keep it off, at least until he knew what came next.

Jack opened his eyes and let them take in the small, simple room. It wasn’t some grand suite; it wasn’t even close. The wooden door across from him led to a small bathroom, and everything else—the bedside table, the reading chair, the mirror—was plain, unadorned. The wooden beams gave the space a rustic feel, and for a moment, it struck him how much he preferred this.

No extravagance. No pretense. Just peace.

Soft light filtered through the cream-colored curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. The sunlight peeked in, warm and inviting, but the drawn curtains kept the space snug and cool. The walls, painted a calming white, made everything feel still, like time had slowed to a crawl. Jack lay there, staring at the ceiling, doing a quick calculation in his head. He must have slept for nearly 18 hours.

Yet, despite the long rest, he felt like he could stay in bed all day. The thought crossed his mind, lingering for a moment.

As if by some sadistic level of witchcraft, a knock came on his door at that exact moment.