This story contains mature themes including emotional trauma, mental health struggles, and strong language. Reader discretion is advised

CHAPTER 6 (Charlie's POV)

The office is buzzing, but I’m somewhere else. The glow of my monitors lights up the cluttered desk — stacks of sketches, red pens, and coffee cups crowd every corner. Comic book pages flood my screen, each panel begging for perfection. 

“Charlie, you got a minute?” McKenzie’s voice cuts through the noise. She’s one of the senior artists, sharp and impatient. 

I force a smile. “Yeah, what’s up?” 

She drops a fresh stack of artwork on my desk. “The new issue’s deadline got moved up. We need these edits done by tomorrow morning.” 

Great. Just what I needed. 

I rub my temples, trying to ignore the stress.

My scar itches.

I dive back into the pages, going through every line. The artist’s style is rough but full of raw emotion — kind of like how I feel sometimes. 

A message pops up on my phone — Gwen. 

“Are you okay?” 

I stare at it for a second, typing back. 

“Busy. Why?” 

“Just checking.” 

I want to ask her what she’s really up to tonight. But I don’t. Not yet. 

The clock ticks louder than the office chatter, and I realize I haven’t had lunch yet. My eyes sting, and my fingers tremble as I grab the red pen, circling a small detail — a missed shadow, a shaky line. 

I’m supposed to be the editor. The fixer. The guy who holds everything together. 

But inside, I’m falling apart.