Like raindrops sliding down a windowpane, condensation trickled along the inside of my nearly empty whiskey sour glass, leaving faint trails on the surface. Absentmindedly, I shredded the damp napkin beneath it, the soggy fragments clinging stubbornly to my fingers. When I glanced up, I caught the bartender smirking, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Embarrassed, I swept the scraps into a pile and offered a small, apologetic smile.

Above the bar, the TV glowed with yet another replay of Weston Vanish’s now-infamous meltdown. In less than 24 hours, the story had exploded across every media outlet, saturating the city with gossip and speculation.

I pulled my notepad from my bag, staring at the stark, blank page that should have been brimming with insights. Reporting the same tired details as every other journalist wasn’t an option—I needed a fresh angle, something that would make my piece stand out from the noise.

Moonlit Tavern was unusually quiet that evening. Normally, the locals thrived on outlandish stories, their enthusiasm fueling the bar’s atmosphere. But tonight, Weston Vanish had captured their full attention, pulling their gazes toward the screen like moths to a flame. The fact that I had witnessed the chaos firsthand still felt surreal. Yet, the pressure of crafting something meaningful loomed over me, and my half-hearted attempts at jotting down notes did little to ease it.

My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and Adam’s name flashed across the screen. I answered without hesitation—I already knew why he was calling.

“Did you catch the news?” His voice crackled through the line, the broadcast faintly audible in the background.

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