The Decision

Jeremy took a deep, steadying breath, the kind that braced a man about to dive into unknowable depths. The room was cast in the soft glow of twilight that filtered through the half-closed blinds. He pushed himself off the plush, leather couch, the material protesting with a familiar creak that spoke of many nights like this, brooding over the chessboard of his career.

Lloyd, in his shadow, mirrored the motion, rising from an adjacent armchair. A silent sentinel, his presence was both a comfort and a reminder of the conversation at hand—a conversation that hung in the air like the faint smolder of the fireplace's last embers.

The worn leather of the living room couch groaned as he pushed himself up, his fingers still cold from the glass that he now needed to refill. The whiskey had been a temporary reprieve, but the burn in his throat was a stark reminder that he couldn't drown his problems in the amber liquid.

Jeremy's footsteps were deliberate as he crossed the room to the wet bar,