CHAPTER 23

 

Chapter 23

 

The venue was a cavernous, empty shell … a large arena with metal beams crisscrossing the ceiling, their shadows stretching long and jagged over the concrete floor. At its center loomed the stage, big and dazzling even in its unlit state, which soon would come alive, but for now, it was only half-prepared for the rehearsal with cables snaking across its surface and lights being adjusted.

Still, Michael could see it, feel it even. The sold-out crowd, the roar of the music, the adrenaline rushing through him like wildfire…

If only he could keep his shit together long enough to get there.

Sweat slid down his face, stinging his eyes while the relentless pound of the bass hammered through his skull. The music was deafening and repetitive almost like it was mocking him.

The beat.

The rhythm.

The moves.

It was all supposed to flow, to feel natural, but for some reason it didn’t. Not even close….

His body felt wrong, off-kilter like someone had swapped out his limbs for rusty hinges and every step felt like a struggle, every twist and turn felt heavy and sluggish, like he was dragging cement blocks instead of legs.

Around him, the dancers moved with laser precision, each pirouette sharp as a blade, each flick of the wrist snapping like a whip. They were flawless, exactly what they were supposed to be. Perfect. Pros. But Michael?

Michael was stumbling, tripping over himself like a rookie, one beat behind, then two, and no matter how much he tried, he just couldn’t keep up.

“Again!” The choreographer’s voice sliced through the chaos and the music reset, starting from the top, while Michael swallowed hard, forcing the frustration down even as it burned like acid in his throat.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, barely audible over the pounding rhythm, yet nobody responded, not verbally, at least.

The dancers nodded, their expressions blank masks of professionalism but they didn’t need words to say what he already knew… for the very first time in his life he was actually the one dragging them down.

Gritting his teeth, Michael wiped the sweat off his face and tried again. His muscles screamed, his focus wavered, and that was when it happened. One misplaced step, one stupid mistake, and his ankle twisted sharply beneath him.

Pain shot up his leg like a live wire, jagged and brutal, and he let out a loud yelp before dropping to a crouch. The floor was cold and unforgiving beneath him as he clutched his ankle, the sting radiating up through his bones like fire.

The music cut off abruptly, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake.

“Shit…” Michael hissed, rubbing at his ankle like he could somehow will the pain away, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

His vision blurred at the edges, sweat dripping into his eyes while his whole body started trembling … not from pain but anger. Fury. At himself. At everything.

“What the hell, Michael?” One of the producers barked from the seats, irritation dripping from every word.

Michael didn’t look up. He couldn’t. His pride was already in tatters, and he knew he just couldn’t stomach seeing their expressions whatever they would be… pity, annoyance, disappointment. It was all the same.

“Michael!” A voice cut through the tension, one he didn’t recognize at first and he looked up to see the new young doctor the producers had hired hurrying toward him. The guy was tall, sharp-looking, dressed way too nice for a rehearsal space. “What happened?”

“My ankle.” Michael growled through clenched teeth, trying not to wince as another jolt of pain shot through him before the doctor crouched beside him, his hands already moving to examine the joint.

“Let me see. Can you move it?”

“I’m not sure. Feels like… like it’s on fire.” Michael shook his head, biting back a groan and the doctor nodded, his expression calm. He worked quickly, wrapping the ankle with practiced ease. “You’ve strained it. Nothing serious, but you need to take it easy.”

Michael muttered a stiff ‘thanks’, as the doctor finished before he pushed himself up carefully, ignoring the way his body screamed in protest, and leaning heavily on his good leg. The pain wasn’t as bad now, though it still throbbed but the worst thing was that he wasn’t the same.

That was the truth he couldn’t outrun, no matter how fast or hard he danced.

The Michael who used to own the stage, who used to command attention, had slipped away somewhere along the line, and he had no idea how to get him back.

The music started again, the dancers resetting without hesitation, but Michael felt as if a noose was tightening around him, coiling tighter and tighter until all he could do was stand there, ankle throbbing, heart pounding, drowning in the realization that he wasn’t enough.

Not anymore.

He forced himself to focus again, pouring everything into each step and for a few fleeting moments, it worked… he nailed the first moves, each one landing clean and sharp, but the second he had to shift his weight to the injured foot, pain exploded up his leg again and his focus shattered immediately.

Fuck.

And within mere seconds, he was out of sync again, another misstep, another mistake.

“Cut the music!” The director barked from the sidelines, his voice slicing through the tension and the sound screeched to a halt, leaving a thick silence in its wake. “We’ll take a break. Everyone, grab some water… Michael, sit down.”

Michael nodded stiffly, his head spinning while exhaustion tugged at his limbs, sweat dripped down his brow, and his chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. He needed out. Space. Air.

Mumbling a quick, ‘sorry’, he turned abruptly, ignoring the sharp throb in his ankle with every step. He could feel their eyes on him but he didn’t care, his mind already somewhere else.

The dressing room door swung shut behind him and for a second, Michael just stood there, hands braced on his knees, sucking in air. His reflection in the full-length mirror caught his attention, and what he saw just stopped him cold.

The person staring back at him wasn’t him. Not really…

His face looked hollow and his skin was pale and sallow, stretched tight over gaunt cheekbones. He looked like a ghost, like someone who had been fighting a war for weeks and losing.

And maybe he really had been…

Michael dragged his hands down his face, trying to rub some life into his features, but the mirror didn’t cooperate. Instead, it stayed grim, unforgiving and his eyes drifted lower, landing on the outfit the producers had thrown on him that morning … some flashy, sequined monstrosity of a jacket that sparkled under the fluorescent lights and some pants that weren’t really any better, baggy in the worst places, clinging awkwardly in others.

What a joke...

With a frustrated sigh, Michael shuffled into the bathroom, gripping the sink for support. He twisted the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, wincing at the sharp chill against his skin but still careful not to mess up the layers of makeup.

The cold did nothing to chase away the exhaustion… it wasn’t just his ankle or the rehearsals or the late nights. It was… everything.

Turning away from the mirror, Michael locked the bathroom door behind him, shutting out the world. He just needed a moment, one goddamn moment to breathe without feeling the weight of a thousand expectations crushing him.

Sliding down against the bathroom door, he let his body sink to the floor. His legs ached, his back throbbed, and the pain in his ankle flared again, sharp and insistent. He rubbed it absently as his mind drifted… Away from the arena, away from the mirrors and the music. Back to the hotel room. Back to Lisa…

 

 

He had thought breaking it off was the right thing to do. At the time, it felt like the only thing to do …

The photos had been the breaking point. Her and Matt, laughing together in the park like two teenagers in love, oblivious to the world around. Seeing them had been like a shotgun blast to the chest and Michael had snapped, he had reached his limit, and… he tapped out.

The signs had been there even before the damn photos, of course … red flags he had ignored because he didn’t want to believe them. Lisa had been distant for weeks, pulling away little by little, leaving him grasping at empty air like when he had begged her to spend time with him before Bahrain, practically on his knees for crumbs of her attention. What a fucking idiot!

Then there was the voice mail… she had told him he deserved better, the same tired line everyone used in breakups. And yet again, he had fought it, he had fought for her, for them, like a fool who didn’t know when to quit.

But already back then Lisa wasn’t his anymore. And he wasn’t hers.

And yet, the memory of her face when he ended it still haunted him. Her lips trembling as she whispered the words he had waited so long to hear: I love you.

And then he had thrown them back in her face... told her love wasn’t enough to fix what was broken and walked away without looking back, so damn sure he was doing the right thing.

But now? Now he wasn’t sure anymore…

Michael let out a long, shaky breath, rubbing his ankle again as the pain throbbed in time with his heartbeat while his mind just wouldn’t let go. Over and over, it replayed the look on Lisa’s face and the way her eyes had searched his, pleading with him not to leave. Begging him to stay.

She had flown all the way to see him and he just kicked her to the curb... 

What a dick move...

And now? Well, now here he was, sitting alone on a cold bathroom floor like the pathetic loser he was, his head in his hands, wondering if he had actually destroyed one of the very few things that had ever truly mattered to him.

The chill of the tiles seeped through his pants, biting into his skin as his whole body was trembling, not just from the feverish ache crawling under his skin or the brutal, bone-deep cold that wouldn’t let him breathe, but mainly from the way his mind just… wouldn’t shut up.

He tipped his head back against the wall, his throat raw, his chest tight with some feeling he couldn’t really name while the fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, too bright for his pounding head, turning everything into a blurry haze that stung his eyes.

He stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything other than his screw-ups or Lisa.

Lisa…

He had told himself it was for the best… That breaking things off was the right move…

If he could just focus on saving the career he had spent all his years fighting for, then maybe it was the right thing to do… It had seemed like the only solution at that point.

He needed all his wits to focus on the rehearsals, to stay sharp, and the constant fights were only dragging him down, clouding his mind when he couldn’t afford to be distracted…

Then a knock at the door broke through his spiraling thoughts.

“Hey, Michael, we need you back on stage.” The voice was muffled but familiar, one of the stagehands, maybe.

Michael grunted a response, the sound low and involuntary but when he pushed himself to stand, dizziness hit him hard, the room tilting like a ship in rough seas and he gripped the sink for support again, squeezing his eyes shut until the spinning stopped.

His vision cleared, but his body didn’t feel any steadier as he unlocked the door, forcing his posture upright and trying not to limp as he stepped out.

The stage buzzed with chaos as Michael re-entered, his thoughts miles away. Then he heard the first notes of the song and and let out a long sigh.

Damn…

The Way You Make Me Feel…

He knew the routine by heart, every beat, every move ingrained from hours of practice but his body felt too heavy and too sluggish to even try running from one side of the stage to the other…

The beat kicked in, and Michael forced himself to move. He hit the steps, willing his limbs to obey, his smile paper-thin and his energy a pale shadow of what it should have been.

He sang the first couple of lines and then… she walked in…

Long legs, a tight black dress, and hair that cascaded in perfect waves. She couldn’t have been more than twenty but the look she threw him, bold and unflinching, left no room for doubt. Shy wasn’t in that girl’s vocabulary…

She felt familiar. Like he should know her, like her name was sitting on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach and for a minute it bugged him, the kind of itch he couldn’t scratch, but he couldn’t place her no matter how hard he tried.

The music swelled, and they began to move. The girl was all flirtation and fire, her every step precise, every glance deliberate and Michael tried to keep his focus on the choreography and the lyrics, but she wasn’t making it easy. Her moves were bold, invasive, she darted toward him, then away, her energy crackling like electricity.

The girl kept weaving around him, her hands brushing against his shoulders, sliding down his arms or trailing over his chest and it wasn’t rough or clumsy, no, everything she did was smooth, calculated, like she knew exactly what effect she was going for.

But to Michael, it felt... wrong. Her touch left a sticky kind of discomfort on his skin, a phantom weight that made his muscles tense and he did try to play it cool, to stay in character, but every brush of her fingers made his stomach churn, his focus slipping with every second she got closer…

And then it happened.

She ran straight for him, closing the gap between them in a flash and before he could react, her lips were on his.

What the actual fuck?!

It wasn’t part of the choreography, it wasn’t supposed to happen and the world seemed to freeze for a moment, letting the absurdity of the moment wash over him.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it was over and the girl pulled back with a playful laugh, her eyes glittering like she had just won some kind of prize.

Michael stared at her, his mind racing, while his lips somehow continued moving and his vocal cords kept vibrating, singing.

Was anyone going to say something?

The crew didn’t react. The choreographer didn’t react. The producer didn’t move an inch. Everyone carried on like this was normal, like it wasn’t completely unprofessional and wildly inappropriate…

Back in the day, Michael would have had someone fired for this kind of stunt. It had already happened with Tatiana, after all... But now? Now it was clearly just another thing he had to swallow and move past.

He felt like a joke. A man in his forties, dancing around with someone young enough to call him Dad without anyone batting an eye. The age gap was definitely there and it made his skin crawl.

He couldn’t help but shudder at the absurdity of it all, trying to sing a song he had written two decades ago with the same energy he had had in his twenties, pretending nothing had changed.

But everything had changed, hadn’t it? The lyrics didn’t hit the same, and he felt like a shadow of who he had once been...

He forced himself back into the routine, his movements stiff and mechanical as the music drove forward and she kept dancing around him, her energy relentless, her presence inescapable. Michael tried to keep up but by the time the girl disappeared offstage, he was barely holding it together.

The final sequence began, and something clicked while muscle memory took over, the rhythm carrying him through the steps and for the first time all day, he felt in control, every move sharp and precise. Suddenly, the pain didn’t matter, the exhaustion didn’t matter.

He and the backup dancers stepped forward in perfect unison, their movements deliberate, their strides slow and steady as they built anticipation… Then, with a quick burst of energy, they leapt onto the tiptoes of one leg, their arms spreading wide like wings, the motion clean and fluid and as the beat dropped, they spun into a tight pirouette. Michael turned with them, and when the motion stilled, they simply dropped to their knees in perfect synchronicity.

He hit the floor with practiced ease and then, still kneeling, he pushed forward step by step, before they all hit the ground, stomachs flat against the stage, the sound of their synchronized thud adding to the music’s intensity.

Michael balled his right hand into a fist, slamming it against the floor in time with the beat and the sound reverberated through the room.

When Michael stood up again, he unhooked his shirt from where it was tucked into his pants, letting it fall loose and he threw his hands high into the air while the dancers moved smoothly to the opposite side, their steps tight and coordinated, creating space as the spotlight centered on him.

Michael launched back into singing, his voice soaring as he moved, hips swaying with the rhythm and then, with one last motion, he threw his hands skyward again, letting the final oooooh rip through the air…

The song ended and the applause from the people around hit, and for one fleeting moment, everything felt right. But as Michael lowered his arms slowly, the world tilted again and a strange coldness crept through him.

It started in his fingertips, spreading up his arms and into his chest, then his breath caught, shallow and uneven, as dizziness swept over him like a tidal wave and he gripped the nearest railing, trying to steady himself.

A voice called his name, distant, urgent, but he couldn’t focus on it and his legs buckled, his body betraying him as the coldness seeped deeper.

Was this it?

Was this how it ended?

Michael took a shaky breath, fighting to stay upright, but his body had other plans and he swayed, the room spinning faster and faster, and for the first time in a long time, he felt truly powerless…

His body gave out, and he crumpled to the floor while cold seeped into his skin as everything around him began to dim, the edges of his vision narrowing into a tunnel. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each beat slower, heavier, like a drum echoing in a vast, empty space and then, blackness.

At first, it was silent, a void so complete it felt like the world had ceased to exist, then came the faintest flicker of light, a shimmer in the distance, barely there and Michael squinted, straining to make sense of it…

Lisa.

She stood against the darkness, her figure soft and glowing, like she was made of starlight, her hand outstretched and her fingers just barely reaching toward him.

“Lisa!” He called, his voice hoarse, desperate.

Her face was calm, serene, but her eyes held something he couldn’t quite name. Regret? Sorrow? He couldn’t tell. He just knew he had to reach her.

He stretched out his hand, his fingertips brushing the edge of hers, but she didn’t grab hold, she just stood there watching him.

“Help me!” He shouted, panic creeping into his voice as the darkness around him shifted, coiling and twisting, and that was when he felt them…

Hands.

Cold, skeletal hands, gray and gnarled, shot out from the blackness and wrapped around his ankles. Their touch was icy, searing, and they pulled at him with an unnatural strength.

“No! No!” Michael yelled, thrashing against their grip. “Lisa, please! Don’t let them take me!”

More hands emerged, clawing at his legs, his arms, his torso as they dragged him backward, pulling him deeper into the abyss. The harder he fought, the stronger their grip became, their bony fingers digging into his flesh like hooks.

“Lisa!” He screamed, his voice now cracking with raw terror. “I love you! I need you! Please!”

She didn’t move. Her hand remained outstretched, but she didn’t step closer, didn’t try to save him, her expression was unreadable, distant, as if she was watching him from another world.

And then, finally, she spoke. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it cut through the darkness like a blade.

“It’s too late. You have made your decision.”

The words knocked the wind out of him.

“No!” He choked out, shaking his head. “No, it’s not! I’m sorry!”

But she was already fading, her light dimming as the void consumed her and Michael reached for her one last time, tears streaming down his face, but it was no use. She was gone.

The hands yanked harder, their claws tearing into him, shredding him apart piece by piece and he screamed, the sound raw and primal, as the darkness swallowed him whole…

 

 

When Michael opened his eyes, the world was a blur. Everything seemed too bright and he blinked, trying to focus, but his eyelids felt too heavy and his body too weighed down by exhaustion.

There was a faint beeping nearby, steady and rhythmic, accompanied by the soft buzz of machines.

Slowly, the world came into focus. He was lying in a hospital bed, with an IV taped to his arm while thin wires trailed from his chest to a monitor by the bed.

He tried to move, but his body protested and he tried to speak but his throat was dry, raw.

A figure moved in the corner of his vision. A nurse, young, with dark eyes and a kind smile, stood by a chart, jotting something down. When she noticed him stirring, her face lit up.

“Ah, you are awake!” She said, her accent thick, her English slightly clumsy. “Welcome back to the world of alive.”

Michael tried to speak again, but the words caught in his throat and he coughed, his voice barely a rasp.

“Wha...” He swallowed hard, wincing at the dryness in his mouth. “What happened?”

The nurse set the chart down and stepped closer, her movements calm.

“You faint.” She said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Very bad, yes. But doctor, he will explain all. I go tell him you wake.”

She turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Someone is... waiting. They ask if you want visitor?”

Michael’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Lisa.

Could it be her?

His mind raced, replaying their last conversation in the hotel room, the argument, the way she had looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt.

It couldn’t be her… He had screwed it up and sent his assistant to put her on the next flight out. She wasn’t here… She couldn’t be here.

But still, a part of him hoped.

The nurse tilted her head, waiting for his answer.

“You want see, or no?”

Michael hesitated, then he nodded and the nurse smiled faintly.

“Okay. I tell them.”

She disappeared out the door, leaving it open behind her and a moment later, a figure stepped into the room.

Not Lisa.

Definitely not Lisa…

John.

Michael’s stomach dropped. Of all the people in the world, John was the last person he wanted to see.

The man strolled in like he owned the place, with the face that practically begged to be punched, though this time he wasn’t smirking, and Michael wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. He just stood there for a beat, his gaze flicking from Michael to the monitor, then back again.

“You okay?” John asked finally, his tone clipped, detached, like he was checking on a car in the shop and not a person.

Michael’s throat was dry, but he managed to croak…

“Not sure yet.” He shifted against the stiff pillows, wincing as his muscles protested. “I mean, I’ve just come around.”

John stepped closer, his hands shoved into his pockets, his jaw set in a way that made Michael’s stomach twist.

He was suspiciously calm and that was never good. Michael braced himself, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then it did.

“This can’t keep happening.” John began, his voice low and steady but laced with steel. “You hear me? This…” He gestured vaguely to the IV, the wires, the beeping monitors. “This shit cannot go on.”

Michael opened his mouth to respond, but John didn’t give him a chance.

“Do you have any idea how much money is tied up in this project? Millions, Michael. Millions! And you’re over here fainting, collapsing, screwing up rehearsals left and right. Everyone else is pulling their weight and here you are, dragging the whole thing down.”

“John..”

“No.” John cut him off, his voice sharp now. “No excuses. You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to this. You knew it was going to be brutal, that every second of every day was going to count. Don’t act surprised now, like you didn’t see it coming.”

Michael felt the words hit him like blows and his fists clenched at his sides, the IV tugging uncomfortably against his arm.

“And look at you.” John’s eyes swept over him, cold and critical. “You look like crap, man. Gaunt, exhausted …you think anyone wants to see that on stage? You think anyone’s going to pay top dollar for a show when the star looks like he can barely stand?”

“Maybe…” Michael said through gritted teeth as his anger flared. “Maybe I wouldn’t look so bad if the schedule wasn’t so fucking insane, John! Six weeks of nonstop commitments? No time to rest? What did you expect?”

But John wasn’t listening. He was on a roll now, his words coming fast and sharp like bullets.

“Don’t give me that ‘woe is me’ crap…” John snapped. “Nobody cares, Michael. Nobody cares how tired you are, or how stressed you are, or how much your back hurts. You wanted this. You signed the contract. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and get it together. We’ve got you the best doctor money can buy to take care of you, so you’re gonna let him do his job. In the meantime, you’re gonna eat something, drink some water, and figure out how to get a grip. Because the concert’s in two weeks, Michael. Two weeks. Rehearsals are a mess, the show looks terrible, and we’re not pushing the date back. Got it?”

Michael swallowed hard, his mouth dry as sandpaper but he nodded, the motion stiff and reluctant.

“Good…” John said, his tone flat. Without another word … no “get well soon,” no “feel better” … he turned on his heel and walked out…

John was actually right this time.

Michael hated to admit it, but the whole thing was a shitshow, the choreography was rough around the edges, the transitions were clunky, and he wasn’t really helping screwing up and fainting.

Untied loose ends were everywhere, but it wasn’t just Michael dropping the ball — everything felt half-baked at best, like they were all scrambling to keep up, and the clock was ticking, and they were running out of time to pull it together.

He could already see the headlines.

“Michael Jackson Crashes and Burns: Concert a Complete Trainwreck. People Asking for Their Money Back.”

The steady beeping of the monitor next to him sped up, the rhythm quickening as his pulse raced and Michael glanced at the screen, his eyes catching on the numbers flashing in red.

“Great…” He muttered, his voice trembling. “Just great.”

He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down, but his chest felt tight, like a band was wrapped around his ribs before the door opened, and Michael’s head snapped up, expecting to see John again, or maybe the nurse but it wasn’t either of them.

The man who walked in was tall and dignified, probably in his late 30s, with sharp cheekbones and warm, dark eyes. He wore glasses with thin, elegant frames, and a pristine white lab coat over a perfectly tailored suit.

“Mr. Jackson…” He said, his voice deep and steady, carrying a calm authority. He smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes. “I’m Dr. Kareem. It’s good to see you awake.”

Michael blinked, caught off guard by the man’s presence.

“Uh, yeah. Hi.”

The doctor stepped further into the room, his gaze shifting to the monitors that lined the wall, all of them beeping in rapid succession. Heart rate spiking, blood pressure climbing, Michael had worked himself into a full-blown panic attack, his mind spiraling through every worst-case scenario, playing out all the ways the concert could go wrong but the doctor’s expression remained calm, though his tone firmed slightly as he turned back to Michael.

“You need to take a deep breath and calm down. Your blood pressure is way too high.” He gestured toward the monitors, as if to make the point hit home and Michael swallowed hard, his throat dry.

The doctor then pulled up a chair and sat down, his movements smooth and deliberate.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck... I guess I... fainted or something?”

“Yes, you did. Your body gave you a very clear message: slow down. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, haven’t you?”

Michael gave a weak laugh and nodded and the man smiled again, though his eyes were serious.

“Mr. Jackson, your body is under an enormous amount of stress.” The doctor said, his tone measured, like he was delivering bad news gently to avoid scaring a child. “You’re severely underweight, your muscles are tense, and your vital signs are all over the place. If you continue like this, you’re going to collapse again… or worse. You need to rest, and if your schedule is as demanding as they say, then rest isn’t optional. It’s a necessity.”

Michael sat on the bed, the words bouncing around in his head like marbles in an empty tin can.

“I know, I know. I just... It’s a lot. I can’t sleep. I’m too stressed, and my back’s been killing me.”

The doctor tilted his head, his gaze sharp but not unkind.

“It’s not the end of the world.” He said after a moment, his voice calm, almost soothing. “There are ways to address these things but you have to be willing to take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try…” Michael said, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them while the doctor leaned back slightly, crossing one arm over his chest while the other tapped a finger against his chin.

“Tell me more about your back pain…” He said, almost conversationally, like they were chatting over coffee and not in a sterile hospital room. “Is it constant? Worse after certain activities?”

“Uh, kind of both, I guess? It’s always there, but rehearsals make it worse, of course. Like this sharp, stabbing thing right between my shoulders and in my lower back.”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully, like he was filing the information away. “And the stress? Is it just work, or is there more to it? Trouble sleeping usually comes from somewhere…”

“It’s mostly the pressure now, I think. You know how it is.”

“I can imagine…” Dr. Kareem smiled faintly, his expression a mix of understanding and reassurance.

“I assume you hear these kinds of complaints on a daily basis, don’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve heard it all before, but that doesn’t make your experience any less valid. You’ve got a lot on your plate and your body’s telling you it can’t keep up. It’s my job to help you listen to it before it’s too late.”

Michael nodded, not really trusting himself to say anything. Something about the doctor’s calm demeanor was disarming, like he really cared, like he wasn’t just another medical professional phoning it in…

Michael watched as the doctor stood up, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat and pulling out a small orange bottle. He handed it to Michael, the label catching the light as it passed between them and Michael squinted at the text, his heart skipping a beat…

Demerol.

Michael’s eyes flew up and he caught the man smiling back at him.

“This will help.”