The city lights, usually a mesmerizing spectacle from his penthouse, blurred into a chaotic smear. The champagne flute, half-empty and forgotten, felt heavy in his hand, the chilled liquid a stark contrast to the burning in his chest. It wasn't the physical pain that consumed him, though the crushing weight in his ribs was undeniable; it was the gut-wrenching realization that the carefully constructed façade of his life had crumbled, revealing the gaping chasm of emptiness beneath.

The phone call had come late, a jarring intrusion into the meticulously orchestrated quiet of his evening. His brother, Mark, had always been the wild card, the reckless one, the antithesis of John’s controlled existence. Mark, the one he’d distanced himself from, the one he’d judged relentlessly, was gone. A car accident. Sudden. Irrevocable.