With a tired yet satisfied sigh, he set his pen down. Pages lay scattered beneath his chair, and the table was a chaotic landscape—just enough space for his notepad among the clutter of dirty, coffee-stained cups, cigarette butts, an old lighter, and other remnants of the night. It mirrored the state of his mind—thoughts tangled and diminishing with each rhyme he meticulously wove, crossing out lines again and again until, at last, perfection bloomed.

  Finally, the poem was complete—a thing of beauty born from the ugliness of a harrowing night. Subtle in its metaphorical rhymes, it transformed his distress and suffering into something hopeful, offering him solace in the final lines.

  "Hmm..." he murmured thoughtfully, tapping his pen against the notebook. After a moment of reflection, he titled it:

  "Stardust and Solitude."

  A wistful smile crossed his lips. He closed the notebook, stretched like a cat, and leaned back in a deep, satisfied bow. Then, with a weary sigh, he made his way to the crumpled bed nearby, pulling the covers over himself. Nestling into a comfortable position, he reached out and switched off the night lamp, letting the darkness claim him.

  * * *

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  Sleep took him swiftly, but the night was restless. Shadows pursued him through shifting layers of dreams—each one darker than the last. He ran, desperate to escape, but his fears always found him, lurking just beyond reach. It wasn’t until the first light of dawn crept through the window that the nightmare finally loosened its grip.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  The sharp, grating sound of his phone shattered his brief respite.

  Half-conscious and irritated, he blindly groped for it on the bedside table, his fingers fumbling with tired familiarity. Swiping the screen, he mumbled groggily, “Hello…?”

  “Hey! Are you still in bed? You’re supposed to be here already! Get your ass moving—pronto. The boss wants to see you now!”

  The line went dead.

  For a moment, he sat there, still half-dazed, not fully awake. Then—

  “Shit. Shit. Shit!”

  Adrenaline surged through him. He jolted upright, kicking off the covers in a frenzy. Stumbling out of bed, he wrestled into his pants, scrambled for his wallet and keys, and finally snatched his leather jacket before rushing out the door.

  * * *

  “Well, well, well—if it isn’t our very own literary don, gracing us lowly troublemakers with his grand presence.”

  Jimmy’s voice dripped with mocking falsetto, the words stretching into the silence that followed. Behind him, two of his hitmen stood rigid, their dark shades masking any emotion. They flanked his revolving chair like statues, while Jimmy himself sat with his arms crossed, exuding an air of casual menace.

  He wasn’t much to look at—unremarkable, really—except for his eyes. Cruel, calculating, always searching for weakness.

  “Good morning, boss,” came a trembling response.

  The voice belonged to Elias Mercer—Eli to those who bothered using his name. Errand boy for the local crime family by day, insomniac poet by night.

  Out of habit, his eyes flicked to his cheap Mi Band, checking the time. A mistake.

  A small, heavy package hurtled toward his face. He barely caught it, stumbling a step back as he steadied himself.

  Jimmy smirked. “You’ll get that down to the docks before noon and bring back the subscription… hmm, let’s see—by one. Your time starts… now.”

  * * *