The sticky, stale scent of stale beer and desperation clung to the air, thick and oppressive, just like the confusion swirling in Mark's head. He gripped the sweating tumbler tighter, the ice rattling a lonely tune against the glass. He was here, in a gay strip club, two hours from home, a thousand miles from the carefully constructed life he led with Sarah.

Every pulsing beat of the music, every flash of the stage lights, felt like a judgment. He was a fraud, a coward, chasing an answer he both craved and dreaded. His gaze, restless and furtive, swept the buzzing room, searching for something—anything—that would either repel him or pull him in.

Then, a voice. Smooth, knowing, cutting through the din. "It isn't that hard, buddy." Mark flinched, snapping his head sideways, and his eyes locked onto a pair of dark, amused ones. Chris. And just like that, the night, and perhaps his life, irrevocably changed.