The clock on Ethan Lee’s desk struck twelve. The blinking cursor on his laptop screen stared back like a silent accusation — a reminder that his career as a horror novelist was circling the drain. His editor had sent him a message that morning: “One last chance. Deliver something that sells.” He hadn’t written a single usable line. Outside, Boston was drenched in November rain. The city hummed in the distance — cars on wet asphalt, thunder echoing somewhere above the Charles River. Ethan rubbed his temples, trying to squeeze out an idea, anything that could pass for a plot. Then his phone buzzed. “Hey!” The voice on the other end was loud, familiar, and slightly drunk. Ethan blinked. “Ryan?” “Knew you’d still be up,” Ryan Wells laughed. “Jamie’s got no plans this weekend, Kyle finally escaped his cubicle hell, and you—” He paused for dramatic effect. “You, my friend, have no excuse. Sunday night. My place. We’re doing this.” Ethan leaned back, the corner of his mouth lifting. Ryan always sounded like he was still seventeen — loud, fearless, untouchable. Back in high school, everyone called him The Captain. “Sure,” Ethan said finally. “Why not.” He hung up and stared at the ceiling. Maybe it would be good to see them again — the last three people who’d known him before life turned gray. Maybe he’d even find a little inspiration buried under the laughter and beer. Or maybe, he thought, this was just another way