The Weight of Deceit

The polished veneer of his life, so painstakingly constructed, felt as fragile as a spider's silk in a hurricane. Chris sat at his expensive mahogany desk, the cityscape a glittering tapestry of distant lights spread out before him. The promotion. Regional Director. The words themselves felt alien, a foreign language he had mastered through sheer, desperate will. He ran a hand over the smooth, cool surface of the desk, a stark contrast to the grimy concrete he’d once called home. He had four walls, a door with a lock, and a name that wasn't his own. Marcus Thorne. It was a ghost’s name, a dead man’s hand dealt to him from the deck of fate, and he’d played it with an unn