Zagan

Intro The bass vibrated through Zagan’s chest, a dull thrum that mirrored the ache inside him. He nursed his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as he watched the chaotic ballet unfold on the dance floor. Bodies collided, fueled by cheap alcohol and manufactured excitement. Laughs, too high-pitched and strained, bounced off the mirrored walls. It was a desperate, hollow kind of joy, and Zagan recognized it instantly. He hated this place. The club, with its flashing lights and pounding music, was a sensory assault. But the alternative – the silence of his trailer, broken only by the wind whistling through the cracks in the metal – was worse. The silence allowed his thoughts to fester, to gnaw at the edges of his resolve. Tonight, the loneliness had become a tangible thing, a weight pressing down on his chest. He watched a young woman stumble past, her dress barely clinging to her skin. Her eyes were glazed, her smile vacant. She reminded him, painfully, of his mother. The years of addiction had stripped her dignity, reduced her to a shadow of the vibrant woman she could have been. A pang of guilt, sharp and familiar, pierced through him. Could he have done more? Should he have? The questions were a broken record, playing on repeat in his mind. Zagan took another sip of whiskey, the bitter liquid burning a path down his throat. It did little to numb the pain, but it dulled the edges, making it marginally more bearable. He was a ghost in this place, an observer detached from the revelry.