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. Justin 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.
He watched the street below, half-listening to the squawk of seagulls tearing at a trash heap. A hazy flash of memory—laughter, strobe lights, a girl with glitter on her cheek—flickered and vanished. He didn’t mind the holes in his recollection. Forgetting was part of the charm. Until the pain hit.
It started like a pinch, then sharpened into something that stole his breath. Justin clutched his side and doubled over, forehead damp. He groaned, struggling to stay still as the pain bloomed under his ribs. Minutes passed before he could sit upright. His hands trembled. His instincts finally kicked in.