The attached photos showed Julian hailing rides after late nights at Apex Capital, or the occasional time Samuel had dropped him off. With the license plates and faces blurred, the context was intentionally erased, leaving only the scent of scandal.

[Wait, this is my neighborhood! Someone call the vice squad!]

[I know this complex. It's all migrant workers. Total chaos.]

[If he's selling, I'm buying. Link?]

Julian stared at the screen. He wasn't angry anymore—just nauseous. He moved with a cold, robotic efficiency to save the evidence for Lennox.

"The links," Lennox said suddenly. "I can't open them."

Julian tried to click through. The videos were gone. A search of the platform yielded nothing. Every time a new thread popped up, it was nuked within minutes.

Are they destroying evidence? Julian wondered.

Then, a notification from @Orca: I've suppressed the posts. I'm filing a lawsuit against the source. Your address has been leaked; it's not safe. I have a vacant apartment. You can move in tonight.

Julian's pulse spiked with irritation. Who does he think he is?

@WorkIsKillingMe: I'm not going anywhere. If you have time to play landlord, try managing your psychotic fans instead.

@Orca: I apologize. I will restrain them. But your complex is dangerous. You need to leave.

@WorkIsKillingMe: Don't bother.

Julian declined with sharp finality. He wanted nothing more to do with the man.

That night, Lennox drove him home and gave him the same warning. Julian already knew he had to leave, but with the workload at Apex, he couldn't spare an hour to house-hunt. He spent his lunch break scrolling through listings, planning to view a few places over the weekend.

He got home the next evening and stopped dead in the doorway.

The partition wall that created his "room" had been smashed to pieces. Rubble, drywall dust, and his personal belongings were scattered across the floor.

His head went empty. Was it the roommate? The haters?

Then he looked past his area. The living room partition was gone too.

The "living room" roommate walked in, looking just as haunted. "There was a warning on the door a few days ago about illegal structures," the man muttered. "The agency said it was fine, that we shouldn't worry. I guess they weren't lying."

They tried to call the agent. No answer.

The other roommate swore under his breath and left to crash with a friend. Julian didn't have anyone in NYC. He grabbed a bag and headed for a hotel.

He sat on the edge of the stiff hotel bed and pulled out his phone. He needed to message Samuel to ask for leave. As he took a photo of the wreckage of his life to prove his situation, his hands began to tremble. Tears blurred the screen. He wiped them away with a sharp, angry motion of his sleeve.

It wasn't just the wall that had been broken. It was his dignity. His pride.

Maslow's hierarchy puts shelter at the very bottom, a basic necessity. Julian had come to the city to prove his worth, to build a future, and now he couldn't even guarantee himself a place to sleep.

A buzzing sound cut through the silence.

Samuel was calling.

"Are you okay?" The man's deep, steady voice was frayed with a rare, sharp urgency.

Julian's vision blurred immediately.

"I—I'm fine," Julian whispered, gripping the phone. His throat felt like it was full of glass as he forced the words out. "I just... I can't come to Apex tomorrow. I have to find somewhere to live".

"Don't panic. Pack your things," Samuel said, his voice dropping to a low, impossible softness. "I'll be there in thirty minutes. I'm taking you to a place to stay. We'll handle the rest later. Okay?".

Julian wanted to say no. He wanted to tell the man he could handle his own mess, that he was going to a hotel. But the weight of the rubble on his floor was crushing him. He felt thin, brittle. He wanted to surrender—to give up his pride, his stress, his constant need to be 'fine'. He wanted someone to catch him. He wanted a hold so tight it was painful, someone to tell him it would be alright while he fell apart.

"Yes. Thank you, sir." Julian closed his eyes. A single tear tracked through the drywall dust on his cheek.

While he waited, Julian crouched in the wreckage of his bedroom to pack. The space was a graveyard of grey grit. He had so little. Four months as an intern at

Apex Capital

, and all his possessions fit into a single suitcase. He stuffed his bedding and the few outfits he'd bought for his videos into a woven plastic bag.

The last item was the charcoal suit. The one Samuel had bought him at the precinct. It had been hanging in his cheap closet, and even though it was in a dust bag, the grey silt had found it. Julian wiped the fabric clean with his sleeve, handling the cashmere as if it were made of glass.

Samuel arrived thirty minutes later. He stepped into the ruin of the apartment in a three-thousand-dollar suit and handmade leather shoes, looking like a god visiting a construction site. He didn't say a word about the mess. He simply looked at Julian.

"Everything packed?".

Julian nodded and reached for his suitcase, but Samuel was faster. He stepped over a pile of broken concrete, grabbed the heavy woven bag with one hand, and wheeled the suitcase out with the other. Julian stood there, stunned by the man's efficiency. He bit his lip and followed him into the elevator, carrying nothing but his suit on a hanger.

Samuel was driving a

Mercedes G-Wagon

. The square, matte-black beast felt solid, the engine a low, powerful thrum as they merged into the

NYC

traffic. Julian gripped his seatbelt, watching the unfamiliar streetlights flicker past the window.

"We're almost there," Samuel said, catching Julian's sideways glance. "I have a vacant apartment near the office. You'll stay there tonight".

"Oh," Julian whispered.

The SUV pulled into a luxury high-rise with a shimmering glass facade. It was the kind of building Julian usually only saw from the street—amenities listed on a plaque: gym, pool, tennis courts. The concierge nodded to Samuel as they entered the elevator.

When the door to the unit opened, the lights flickered on automatically. The space was over a thousand square feet, minimalist and pristine. White walls were punctuated by furniture in bold reds, yellows, and blues—a clean, almost playful aesthetic.

Samuel walked him through the functions of the rooms. "The place hasn't been lived in since the renovation. I'll have more supplies delivered tomorrow".

"It's fine," Julian said, shaking his head. "I have my things. But... is it really okay for me to stay here?".

"It belongs to my brother," Samuel replied. "

Sonny

. He's abroad for treatment and won't be back anytime soon. It's better than letting it sit empty".

Sonny. The brother who got custom suits and high-rise apartments before he was even an adult. The gap between their worlds was a canyon Julian finally stopped trying to measure. He wasn't jealous anymore—just tired. He settled for the view of the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He didn't unpack. He assumed this was a one-night mercy. He sat on the designer sofa and checked his phone.

The rental agent had finally messaged back. The tone was cold. Force majeure clause, the text read. No refunds for city-mandated sweeps. We can offer you a different unit in another complex.

Julian didn't want another one of their illegal partitions. He asked for his deposit back, but the agent went silent again. Julian tossed the phone onto the cushions, his jaw tight with frustration.

"Are you okay?" Samuel was watching him from across the room.

"I'm fine." Julian forced a smile that felt like it was cracking his face. "If the house hadn't been torn down, I'd never have gotten to stay in a place this beautiful".

Samuel's gaze didn't waver. The concern in his eyes deepened into something Julian couldn't name.

Julian stood up to head for the bathroom, but Samuel's hand shot out, catching his wrist. The man barely used any strength, but Julian's entire body went hot. A roar started in his ears.

Julian looked at him, his lashes trembling. "Sir... please let go...".

Samuel's eyes darkened. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second, the muscles beneath his suit jacket turning to iron. Julian let out a tiny, sharp huff of air as the pressure turned into a dull ache.

Samuel let go abruptly. "I'm sorry. Go take your shower".

Julian nodded, unable to find his voice. He grabbed his clothes and fled into the bathroom.

The moment the door clicked shut, he broke. Julian crouched on the floor of the rain shower, the hot water beating against his back as he sobbed into his knees.

He wanted to be held. He wanted someone strong and powerful to pin him down, to command him, to make him so breathless he didn't have to think about his ruined room or his empty bank account.

Half an hour later, Julian emerged. The floor-heating made the apartment cozy. He had changed into an oversized T-shirt and sweats. His fingers and cheeks were flushed pink from the heat, hiding the evidence of his breakdown.

Samuel was still in the living room. Julian hesitated, not wanting to intrude but unable to ignore his host. He went back to the sofa and began fussing with his limited luggage, trying to look busy to avoid talking.

"I don't live here, and my brother won't be back for a while," Samuel said, breaking the silence. "You can use the closets".

Julian's hands stilled. He offered a small, polite headshake. "Thank you, sir. But I'll be leaving tomorrow. I won't need the closet".

"I wanted to talk to you about that," Samuel said.