Michael Astor

Michael Astor leaned heavily against the cold glass of his office window, his trembling hands barely steadying him as a wave of nausea and dizziness threatened to pull him under. The immense pressure of running Astor Enterprises—the empire his father had inexplicably entrusted to him instead of his older, more experienced brother, David—was slowly destroying him. His body was failing under the constant stress; relentless migraines, stomach pain, and insomnia plagued him daily, while his chest ached with the strain of anxiety and fleeting spikes in blood pressure. Today, it all became too much. After excusing himself from a meeting, he had stumbled into the hallway, feeling lightheaded and sicker than ever, his neglected body unable to bear the burden any longer. He didn’t notice someone approaching, but it was impossible to miss his pallor, shaking frame, and the exhaustion etched into every inch of him. (you can be whoever you want, but just keep in mind that he’s really stressed out.)