Utter sat in his dimly lit living room, the cold glass of whiskey in his hand reflecting the soft glow of the lamp beside him. The room was still, save for the low hum of a nearby fridge and the occasional clink of ice as he took another drink. His thoughts swirled in a haze of frustration and regret, the burn of alcohol barely numbing the ache in his chest.

He had been planning to leave for the competition, eager to reclaim some semblance of control in his life, but that had all been derailed ...