Sunday morning I was already awake when my phone alarm trilled at exactly 7:00. Sleep had come in fragments, broken by thoughts looping like a jammed tape, giving me no respite.

I got up, opened the balcony doors, and stepped out. The air was fresh, sharp, almost fizzy, but it didn't bother me. I stayed leaning on the railing, gaze lost on the city slowly stretching below me: Central Park still veiled in mist, the first taxis streaking along Fifth Avenue, the sun igniting golden glints on the skyscraper facades.

New York never fully slept, but in those hours it had a discreet intimacy, like it reserved its most authentic version only for those already up. And me, right then, I felt exactly like that: awake too long, watching a life that from the outside looked perfect, but inside left me more and more emptied.

I went to the kitchen, bare feet brushing the cold parquet. I turned on the coffee machine with the automatic gesture of every morning, that slow, repetitive sequence that helped me re-enter the world, gradually leave the torpor, and regain control of the day. The grounds started gurgling softly, a sound filling the still-sleepy kitchen, while the intense, bitter aroma spread through the air, wrapping around me like a daily embrace.

I picked up the remote from the counter, aimed it at the small screen on the wall, and turned on the TV to a 24-hour news channel.

The usual things, the same for years: politicians in suits and ties repeating promises now worn thin, economic growth, more security, a better future for everyone, empty words sliding off people like rain on dirty glass. Ordinary folks listened halfway, exhausted by now, tired of believing in illusions that never changed anything in real life.

Then came the obligatory segment: crime news.

The latest domestic homicide, this time in Queens. A woman killed by her partner in an apartment on the third floor of an ordinary building. The reporter spoke in a detached tone, like it was just another line to check off the rundown. Blurry images of the building facade, yellow police tape, neighbors interviewed repeating "they seemed like a normal couple," "you never heard them fighting."

I muted the volume.

I didn't need the audio to guess how the scene would end.

On the dark wood kitchen table, the minimalist one I'd chosen myself, lay some client files and two résumés. The finalists from Saturday's interviews: Sophia Langford and Madison Reed. Two excellent profiles, from what Marcus and Victoria had reported. I hadn't run the interview myself—they'd handled the main phases with my mother, evaluating skills, experience, and attitude. I'd stepped in only at the end, asking one technical question to test who was truly suited to work with us: a quick test to separate those who reasoned with independent logic from those who just repeated prefabricated patterns.

In theory, the final decision was mine.

In practice, right then the idea left me completely indifferent.

My mind was elsewhere.

Fixed on my mother's invitation for that evening, or, as I called it, the latest marital trap. Another attempt to push me into the arms of the "ideal" daughter from an "appropriate" family.

The Whitmores, this time.

Evelyn Whitmore. Model, stunning. My mother had been talking about her for weeks like she was already the designated daughter-in-law.

I turned the TV off completely.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I sipped the remaining coffee, now lukewarm, and decided to go for a run.

Even if, to be honest, in that moment a fuck would have been the fastest way to burn off the built-up tension. But sex, for me, followed strict rules: away from home, unknown and controlled. A run, instead, was straightforward. It left no traces.

I changed quickly: black technical running pants, gray long-sleeve fitted tee, light trail shoes. I paused a moment in front of the mirror: the physique sculpted by almost obsessive discipline, broad shoulders, sharp abs, no excesses.

Not for vanity.

For control.

To feel like I owned at least something.

I left the apartment, took the elevator to the ground floor, and walked out the building door.

The cold air lashed my face.

I put in the earbuds, connected to the new phone—the one I'd bought after smashing the old one in a fit of rage—and set the timer on my running watch: 45 minutes, my standard. I started.

The route was always the same: down 79th, crossing Central Park West, entering the park from the west side, looping around the Reservoir, then out on Fifth and back. Rhythmic steps, controlled breath, my body responding to commands with the precision of a well-oiled machine.

But my mind, that one, refused to follow.

It kept going back there, circling the same life I hated a little more every day that passed. The firm, my mother, the expectations weighing like an invisible noose around my neck. Everything perfect on the surface, everything rotten underneath. A house of cards built with care for others, that to me only gave nausea.

And then, inevitable, I always ended up at him.

The bathroom guy.

I didn't even know why I'd ended up at The Vault that Friday night.

Usually, when I allowed myself a release, I chose far places: anonymous hotels in the outskirts, clubs where no one could recognize me by mistake. Sterile spots, quick transactions, nothing that left traces.

But that time I'd chosen the Vault.

I'd dyed my hair platinum blond, a temporary dye that vanished with a strong shampoo, convinced it was enough to make me unrecognizable.

A ridiculous disguise, really. Like changing color could alter my face, my voice, the way I moved.

Yet with him it had worked.

Or maybe not.

It didn't matter.

What mattered was how he'd made me feel: alive.

I stopped at the fountain near the Reservoir, bent to drink.

The water was icy, but at least it brought back my breath.

I lifted my face and saw it: a huge billboard on the side of the path.

Me.

In a black suit, studied pose, Lumière Noire bottle between my fingers, penetrating gaze fixed on camera.

I hated that image.

I hated the way I was portrayed: rigid, impeccable, with an expression that seemed to say "don't touch me."

Like they'd shoved a broomstick up my ass.

My mother, instead, had been in ecstasy when she'd seen the ad. "Publicity for the firm," she'd commented satisfied, like Harrington, Locke & Partners needed more visibility. Besides the billion-dollar cases, the charity campaigns (foundations for sick kids, scholarships for minorities, gala events at the Met), all that was missing was me running for Senate or Congress. For my family it would have been the cherry on top: the perfect son, the Harrington name even higher.

But even I had a limit.

While stretching against a rough trunk, two girls in running gear caught up to me at a jog, slowing until they stopped a few meters away.

"Oh my God, you're Andrew Harrington!" the first exclaimed, a twenty-year-old with a high ponytail and shocking pink leggings, pointing enthusiastically at the billboard behind me.

"The one from the Lumière Noire perfume!"

I gave my automatic smile, the polite one I activated by reflex in these situations.

"Yes, that's me."

The second, probably her friend, tugged her arm with a mortified air.

"Are you stupid? You don't bother people like that."

"No problem," I intervened, keeping the tone polite. "Really."

The first widened her eyes, excited.

"Can we take a photo? I swear I won't post weird stories!"

I nodded.

They positioned themselves at my sides, one right, one left, and the girl raised her phone, adjusting the frame with care.

"Three, two, one... smile!"

I did the cover smile, the one my mother loved.

"Thanks so much!" they said in chorus. "You're even hotter in person!"

I waved goodbye and watched them walk away, chatting animatedly between themselves.

I resumed the run, but this time in the opposite direction, heading straight home. The city was waking up: heavier traffic, crowded sidewalks, New York's buzz gaining volume like an orchestra tuning its instruments.

When I reached the building door, I slipped my hand in my pocket for the keys.

The gesture was too abrupt: the keys slipped from my fingers and fell on the concrete with a dry clink, bouncing in the cold air.

I picked them up, and in that instant my gaze landed on a guy walking on the opposite sidewalk: light jeans, white tee under a light beige linen jacket, brown hair tousled by the spring wind.

For a second I thought it was him.

The bathroom guy.

My pulse spiked suddenly, a sudden plunge in my chest that left me breathless.

But as he got closer, crossing the street with a relaxed step, the face changed: softer features, lighter eyes, no trace of that spark I remembered so well.

Fuck.

I slipped the key into the lock with a slow movement. The cold metal brushed my fingers, then entered the keyhole with a small snap. I was about to turn it when a hand landed lightly on my right shoulder.

I turned sharply.

Axel.

"Early morning run?" he said with that boy-next-door smile, light blond hair artfully tousled, gray hoodie and jogging pants.

"Got to stay in shape," I replied. "For the next ads."

"Sure, for the ads," he replied, laughing with that light, spontaneous laugh that seemed part of his breath.

We entered the building and rode the elevator in silence, the kind I could only afford with Axel, just the low hum of the doors closing and the faint click of floors passing.

"What are you doing here on a Sunday?" I asked at the end.

"I was bored," he replied. "Empty house, nothing decent on TV. Thought I'd drop by. I got to the door, rang... total silence. Then it hit me: 'Maybe he's still out having fun.' Again."

I huffed, ironic, just as the elevator stopped with a discreet ding at my floor. The doors slid open slowly, letting in the clear hallway light and the thick carpet muffling every step.

I stepped out first, approaching my apartment door.

"Come on, in. I'll make you a coffee. It's the least I can do for my favorite colleague," I said as I opened the door.

Axel was this for me: college colleague, then the only real friend. The only one I could let my guard down with, without having to play a part. My mother barely tolerated him, openly gay, but turned a blind eye because he came from a respectable family and because, despite the messes he made in court, when he applied himself he was really brilliant.

We went in.

He headed straight for the living room window, the one with the Central Park view that had cost me a fortune but, on days like this, was worth every cent.

I went to the kitchen, turned on the coffee machine, and stayed there a moment, watching the steam rise slowly, listening to the familiar gurgle.

Axel joined me shortly after. His eyes stopped on the documents scattered on the table: a client's files and the two résumés.

"Sophia Langford and Madison Reed," he read aloud, turning to me with a caustic smile. "How come you have two résumés here at home? Your mother's 'talent test' game didn't work this time?"

"Apparently. This time two of them did pretty well."

The machine let out its final hiss, black coffee dripping slow, filling the air with that intense, bitter aroma that always woke my senses. Axel sat down, picking up one of the résumés.

"Another woman in the office... how boring," he commented. He glanced at Sophia's photo. "But this Sophia Langford looks cute. Don't you think?" He looked at me with that sly grin I knew too well.

I handed him his mug, black, no sugar, like he liked it.

"If you're interested, go for it."

He burst out laughing, taking the mug.

"Thanks, but I'll pass. Not my type."

I sat across from him. He finished sipping the coffee, set the mug down with a small thud, and went straight to the point.

"What's his name?"

"Who?" I pretended nothing.

"Come on, Drew," he said softly. "I've known you too many years. When you're like this... closed off, something's wrong. And it has to be someone, I hope."

He stared at me, with that expression that said "don't take me for an idiot."

I sighed, feeling the weight of that question pressing on my chest.

"I have a dinner tonight."

He didn't let me finish. "A dinner? With someone?" His tone was hopeful.

I gave the table a small punch.

"No. It's not what you think. It's a family dinner."

"Oh come on," he went on, shaking his head with a sigh. "We're not in the 1800s anymore. How much longer does your mother want to insist on these arranged dates?"

I picked up the phone and reopened the hookup app.

I scrolled through profiles with mechanical, almost hypnotic movements, unable to stop: a small corner of freedom in a life that otherwise slipped through my fingers, the only space I still felt truly belonged to me. Every swipe was a stolen breath, an instant of control in an existence made of obligations and masks, where I could choose, even if just for a second, who to look at, who to ignore, who to desire without anyone knowing.

Axel tapped his index on the table, a sharp knock that yanked me from the screen for a moment.

"That doesn't do you good," he said, pointing at the phone with a chin nod.

I lowered my gaze again, continuing to scroll.

"I know."

"Look, I'm not talking about the dinner," he clarified, his voice losing the light tone. "I'm talking about that app."

I already knew.

It had become a silent addiction, the only corner of freedom where I could stop acting, even if only for a stolen hour, even if only with a stranger who would never find out who I really was.

Lately I'd spaced out the encounters, but not enough to quit.

Not enough to fill the void.

I set the phone on the table with a tardy gesture, sighing deeply. I leaned my shoulders against the chair back and stared at the white ceiling, immaculate, mirror of a life that seemed perfect only on the surface.

Axel lowered his voice, the sarcasm gone completely.

"These social obligations are consuming you little by little, Drew. You need to unplug. From everything and everyone."

He paused.

Then added, almost to himself:

"Shit, if I were in your place I'd have shot myself already."

I didn't shift my eyes from the ceiling.

"If you're trying to cheer me up," I said softly, "you're doing a really shitty job."

But he was right.

I needed to unplug.

From everything.

From everyone.