Sunday night, January 22nd, 2023.
Ethan's two-floor apartment, Downtown, Brooklyn.
The warm hum of the heater battled the bitter cold seeping in from outside. Snowflakes drifted like ash outside the high windows, frosting the edges with delicate quiet. The city was slowing down. But Ethan wasn't.
Upstairs, he moved with precision — fresh from the shower, dressed in black joggers and a thermal. Hair damp, scent clean, posture as sharp as ever. He carried a tablet in one hand, reviewing market trends, VC reports, and a neuroeconomics research paper that vaguely mentioned a guest author… Leona Joey.
Downstairs, John Stewart sat on the couch like a landmine of crumbs and old loyalty, munching on cheesy nachos and watching some anime with English subs and intense sword fights.
"Bro," John called up, licking orange powder from his fingers. "You got, like, five kinds of protein bars in your fridge, but not a single real snack. This is a hate crime against friendship."
"I stock for performance. Not pleasure," Ethan replied without looking down.
John mock-gasped. "You used to eat cheese puffs while we grinded missions on Warzone! What happened to you?"
Ethan descended the stairs with quiet steps, tablet now off. "I evolved."
John squinted at him. "Nah, bro. You glitched. You're like a Bond villain who went through a heartbreak bootcamp."
Ethan's jaw flexed. "What do you want, John?"
John, unbothered, grinned. "I just wanna hang out with my best friend who doesn't make me feel like a side character in his revenge arc."
Ethan paused, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. The snow outside glowed faintly. The shadows in the room felt a little heavier.
"You showed up out of nowhere after two years," Ethan said, voice low. "And you're still the same. Still chasing girls, still running from your own potential."
John blinked, hurt flickering for a second before it masked into humor.
"Well, at least I didn't turn into Batman after a breakup."
The silence between them wasn't angry. It was layered. Real.
"I didn't become this because of her," Ethan said. "I became this because I realized no one was coming to save me. Not parents. Not love. Not luck."
John looked at him. "But I was always there, man. Even when you fell. I didn't ghost you."
"I know."
Another silence. But this one had warmth.
Then suddenly—Ding-dong.
Both turned toward the door.
Ethan's brow furrowed. "I wasn't expecting anyone."
John's eyes lit up. "Is it takeout? Please say it's the biryani."
Ethan opened the door — and there she stood.
Leona Joey.
Black wool coat. Snowflakes tangled in her chestnut curls. Lips slightly tinted, expression unreadable. Her eyes flickered from Ethan to the room behind him… then to John, who was now sitting upright, mouth open.
"Oh," she said. "You have company."
John stood slowly. "Uh… hi."
Leona raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"I'm John. Childhood friend. Comic relief. Emotional support burrito."
She blinked, then cracked a small smile. "Noted."
Ethan stepped aside. "What are you doing here?"
Leona walked in, removing her coat like she owned the air inside the room. "You left in the middle of our last conversation. I had thoughts. I figured I'd deliver them in person."
John glanced at Ethan, eyes wide.
"Wait... is that... Leona Joey?" He blinked at Ethan. "THE Leona Joey? Like—millions of followers, finance goddess, did-a-brand-deal-with-Nespresso Leona Joey?"
Leona glanced at John with mock offense. "Am I being fanboyed right now?"
John nodded fast. "Respectfully. Very respectfully."
She turned back to Ethan. "You're not going to introduce me?"
Ethan stared at her, then exhaled. "Leona Joey, my research consultant… and friend. John Stewart, unavoidable trouble in a hoodie."
"Pleasure," she said with a slight bow.
John smiled, then leaned toward Ethan and whispered too loudly, "Dude. If you mess this up, I'm legally allowed to slap you."
Ethan muttered, "Try it."
Leona chuckled. "You two are oddly entertaining."
She moved to the couch, sat down like she'd been here before. The aura of a woman used to navigating boardrooms and boys alike. Then her gaze fixed on Ethan.
"Mind if we talk upstairs?"
John blinked. "Do I need headphones?"
Ethan glanced at him. "Yes."
As the two ascended the stairs, John sank back, whispering to himself: "This dude's life is a thriller novel and I'm just the commentary track."
He took another bite of nachos and muttered, "Lucky bastard."