Two months ago, something shifted. It was subtle at first. A breath harder to catch. A hangover that clung past noon. A dull ache he couldn’t stretch away. Still, he told himself it was nothing. A rough night. A bad mix. Nothing he hadn’t bounced back from before.
That morning had started like any other. Vincent had woken up at ten, curtains drawn, mouth dry. The bass of last night’s club still throbbed faintly in his ears. He cracked open a beer, the hiss of the can familiar, almost comforting. He slouched onto his tiny balcony, eyes squinting against the sun.