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Dennis doesn't sleep that night.

He paces his apartment, nauseous from the fight, from an empty stomach, from too much whiskey. He used to handle these nights better in college, when he and Jason would drink until sunrise. But those days feel like another lifetime now.

He thought he was building something real. Permanent.

He was wrong.

The sky's still dark when his phone erupts with Jason’s ringtone. His friend's words come garbled, panicked: "—emergency—site—get here now—"

Dennis's blood freezes.

He makes it to the site in record time. Even before he gets out of the Uber—even from the road on the way there—he sees it.

Flames.

The east wing blazes against the pre-dawn sky, flames licking thirty feet into the air. The heat slams into his face like a physical wall even from the parking lot. Fire crews swarm the perimeter, their hoses pitifully small against the roaring inferno.

Jason sprints over in sweatpants and a hastily thrown-on site jacket, face streaked with ash. "God, Den—security system went off but when I got here it was already—"

He keeps talking but Dennis can't process the words.

The world narrows to the flames. He can't move, can't speak, can barely draw breath. Everything feels distant, unreal, like he's watching someone else's nightmare unfold.

The bamboo supports and steel framework crack and splinter in the heat. Each pop sounds like a gunshot.

Some of the crew have gathered—the ones who live closest. He can see them work alongside Chris, dragging equipment and supplies clear of the danger zone while firefighters battle the blaze.

Chris is soaked with sweat, shirt clinging to his back as he helps carry machinery, shouting directions between heavy breaths.

A gas line explodes. The blast throws everyone back, a wave of scorching air and burning debris. The east wall groans, then collapses in a shower of sparks, twisted metal, and flaming bamboo.

Tears blur Dennis's vision. Not just his dream burning, but investor confidence, company reputation, his father's faith in him—all going up in smoke.

His eyes meet Chris's across the chaos.

Chris's muscles tense for movement. His face is a battle of warring impulses, expression tight. Then he takes half a step toward Dennis, hand just about to reach out...

But he sets his jaw, lets his arm drop to his side, and turns back to the crew.

Even now, he's here, helping, playing the hero—or maybe just covering his tracks.

Dennis watches Chris direct another piece of equipment to safety and doesn't know what to believe anymore. The evidence points to sabotage, but Chris's actions scream otherwise.

The smoke stings his eyes, or maybe those are fresh tears.

Nothing makes sense—not the fire, not Chris, not the ruins of everything they've built together.