He doesn’t wake up to applause. He wakes up to silence. It presses against his chest before his eyes even open, a weight without shape or mercy.
The kind that makes every mistake echo louder than any headline ever did. There’s no studio spin here, no publicist reframing the narrative into something palatable.
Just a man alone with the wreckage he caused. And the quiet, persistent question of whether he deserves to become anything better than this.