The bar on Lexington Avenue was alive when Wyatt Dawson pushed through the door.
Tonight should have felt like victory.
His first real acquisition deal had closed that morning. Small by Wall Street standards, but large enough to make senior partners notice. One of them had stopped him outside the conference room, hand on his shoulder, voice calm and certain.
Keep performing like this, Dawson, and we'll move you faster than planned.
At twenty-four, Wyatt was already climbing faster than men twice his age.
So why did it feel hollow?
Warm air rolled over him, heavy with whiskey, orange peel, and polished wood. Jazz drifted from the corner—slow saxophone, lazy piano, soft brushes whispering over a snare drum. Laughter rose and fell through the room like waves.
He should have been celebrating.
Instead, he only felt tired.
Four years at New York University. Endless lectures. Internship hell. Nights staring at spreadsheets until sunrise. Years spent believing that if he worked harder than everyone else, life would eventually reward him.
Maybe it had.
Yet standing there, with money finally within reach and doors beginning to open, he felt strangely alone.
Somewhere along the way, he had let everything outside ambition run on autopilot.
Friendships included.
Relationships included.
Maybe even himself.
Wyatt loosened his coat and crossed the room. A group of college girls near the entrance glanced his way. One whispered something to another and laughed.
He ignored them.
Tonight wasn't about attention.
Tonight was supposed to be proof.
Proof that talent mattered. Proof that effort mattered more.
He slid onto an open stool at the bar.
Before he spoke, Marcy placed an old fashioned in front of him.
"Thought you vanished this week."
"Almost did."
"Work?"
"When is it not?"
She smirked. "That attitude's why you tip well."
Wyatt laughed softly.
He lifted the glass, breathing in citrus and bourbon. The first sip burned warm on the way down.
For one brief moment, the world felt still.
Then his phone buzzed.
Almost there.
Ryan Keller.
Wyatt smiled despite himself.
Ryan had been there before the internships, before the interviews, before the tailored suits and seventy-hour weeks. Back when success was just a word they threw around between cheap beers and unpaid rent.
Five minutes later, Ryan stepped through the door, collar raised against the cold.
"There he is," Ryan announced. "Future king of Wall Street."
"You're late."
"Dramatic entrances take time."
Ryan dropped onto the stool beside him.
Then his grin paused for the smallest fraction of a second.
His eyes flicked over Wyatt's coat. Watch. Shoes.
Then the smile returned.
"So," Ryan said, "what am I congratulating you for?"
"The deal closed."
Ryan blinked. "Already?"
"Small one."
"Still counts."
Wyatt hesitated, then added, "One of the partners mentioned promotion track."
Ryan lifted his beer.
"Damn," he said lightly. "Look at you."
His tone was casual.
His grip on the bottle wasn't.
They drank.
At first, conversation came easily.
Dorm disasters. Terrible professors. Ryan sleeping through a finance review session while Wyatt tried to teach him derivatives. The economics TA Ryan swore had been in love with him.
"She hated you," Wyatt said.
"She feared commitment," Ryan replied.
Wyatt laughed harder than he had all week.
For a while, it almost felt normal.
Then Ryan asked quietly, "You remember sophomore year?"
"The library?"
"You teaching me formulas because I was screwed."
"You were screwed."
Ryan smiled faintly.
"I thought we'd end up in the same place."
Wyatt frowned. "We did fine."
"No," Ryan said. "You did."
The jazz kept playing.
Glasses clinked.
No one noticed the silence settling between them.
"My parents ask about you sometimes," Ryan said.
"Why?"
Ryan laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
"Because comparing me to successful people is easier than loving me."
"Ryan—"
"It's fine."
But it wasn't.
Wyatt heard it in the strain of his voice. Saw it in the way he stared into his drink like it owed him answers.
Another round arrived.
Then another.
Eventually Marcy crossed her arms.
"You're done."
Ryan glared. "Seriously?"
"Yep."
Outside, Manhattan had teeth again.
Cold wind bit through Wyatt's coat. Steam rose from street grates. Traffic growled through the avenues while neon reflected off wet pavement.
They walked toward the subway in uneasy silence.
Wyatt kept half an eye on Ryan's footing.
The man was drunk.
Too drunk.
The platform below was nearly empty.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A teenager slept across two seats farther down. Somewhere in the tunnel, a train howled closer.
Ryan drifted near the yellow line.
Wyatt stepped beside him.
"Careful."
Ryan didn't look over.
"You ever feel," he asked quietly, "like some people were born on escalators while the rest of us take the stairs?"
Wyatt turned. "Ryan…"
Ryan laughed.
A sharp, broken sound.
"I hated standing still."
The train lights burst into view.
Bright.
Fast.
Growing larger.
Wyatt turned instinctively—
And something slammed into his back.
His foot slipped.
The world tilted.
He stumbled over the edge.
For one frozen instant, he looked up.
Ryan stood above him, smiling the way men smile when they finally stop pretending.
I trusted you.
Then the train arrived.
And Wyatt Dawson's first life ended.