Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
The Patience of Predators : The Note
What power can four simple words hold over a life meticulously constructed? In this gripping installment of The Patience of Predators series, we witness the unraveling of Aston Cross—Manhattan's golden attorney whose perfect existence begins to fracture after finding a mysterious note on his windshield reading: "I see you, brother."
The narrative pulls us through Aston's increasingly disturbed psyche as he grapples with a truth he can't understand. His reflection no longer moves in sync. Music follows him through city streets with lyrics that feel deliberately chosen to torment him. Colleagues insist they've seen him in places he knows he's never been. And those late-night phone calls—breathing on the other end of the line that belongs to no one he knows.
What makes this psychological thriller so compelling isn't blood or violence but the slow, methodical dismantling of certainty. The predator in this story hunts with patience, not knives. It waits in the cracks of what Aston refuses to face, growing stronger with each moment of denial. As listeners, we're forced to question: What small notes have we been ignoring in our own lives? What truths might we be avoiding that will eventually surface?
The episode concludes with five profound reflection questions that challenge us to examine our own carefully constructed identities. What would happen if the mask you spent years perfecting suddenly fell away? Sometimes the most patient predator isn't lurking in shadows—it's the truth we've been running from all along.
Join our growing community of listeners exploring the darker corners of the human experience. Write a review, share with friends, or reach out through the "Let's Chat" link in the description. Remember, as we journey through these psychological landscapes together: you create your reality.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode two of the Patience of Predators. So let's go ahead and let's get into it. Episode two the note called open. Episode 2, the Note Cold Open.
Speaker 1:The morning came heavy, as if the city itself resented him for waking up. Aston dragged himself from the bed. Another fractured night of half-dreams and shallow breathing. He had slipped in pieces, jerking awake at every sound, every shadow, every imagined shift in his reflection. His sheets were tangled, his body slick with sweat. He stared at the ceiling for too long before forcing himself to rise. The ritual studied him Shower shave suit. He adjusted his tie twice before it sat just right On the surface. Aston Cross was restored. The tuxedo from the night before still hung over the chair, a limp reminder of celebration. Today, the Navy suit would shield him again. But the suit didn't erase the night, didn't erase the silence that had stretched too long after Claire's voice fell away. It didn't erase the faint, lagging smile in the glass. It didn't erase the way the city had pressed against his windows like it wanted.
Speaker 1:Inside, he walked into the kitchen, brewed coffee, poured it into a mug that matched the others, stacked perfectly in the cabinet. He stared at the stem curling upward and bent and swayed like smoke, fragile and insistent. He leaned closer and for a second, just a second, he swore it formed letters, shapes or a word he couldn't name. Then the curl broke apart. Just steam, just coffee. He took a sip. It was bitter thin. He drank it anyways. Elevator mirrored him back in multiple. He straightened his tie again, watching each reflection follow. His hands twitched. He looked away, focusing on the numbers climbing and told himself it was nothing. Outside, manhattan was already alive. Taxes blared, buses exhaled at curbs, men in overcoats tucked newspapers beneath their arms. He blended with them. Another polished figure swallowed by the city's current. But the difference sat inside him. He knew it and he wondered if they could see it too.
Speaker 1:On the corner, a record shop had dragged speakers onto the sidewalk Blaring new arrivals to tempt passerbyers. This sort of riff and ofana's Come as you Are split the morning. Kurt Cobain's voice slurred like prophecy Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. The words gripped him harsh, against the cold air. He paused listening too long. People brushed past him a woman tugging her child towards school. A man balancing two cups of coffee, a messenger on a bike weaving through cars, all of them moving, living unaffected. But Aston stayed rooted. The lyric hooked deep you came, doused in mud, soaked in bleach, as you want you to be. The line echoed louder than the horns around him, louder than footsteps, louder than the city itself. He shook himself, forced his legs forward, pulled himself. It was just music, just a song coincidence. And yet the words followed him. As he walked At the firm, everything looked the same.
Speaker 1:Elliot Warren passed him in the hall, clapping his shoulder, congratulating him again for the award. Associates smiled, secretaries greeted him, mind shook his hand. All polished, all ordinary. Bastion felt, apart from it now, as though the office were encased in glass and he watched from the outside his reflection haunted, every polished surface and the conference room table and the framed certificates and the window paints. Each time he caught it out of sync. Half a breath. Late at lunch he caught it out of sync Half her breath blinked.
Speaker 1:At lunch, janine Torres lingered outside his office door. She smiled too brightly. But I saw you last night, she said, down near the canal. You looked different. Ashton's chest tightened. He kept his voice smooth. I was in downtown. Her smile faltered. Eh, must have been someone else. The way she said it casual, dismissive. It felt like a knife slipped in between his ribs.
Speaker 1:The rest of the day was blurred. His hand signed documents without memory. His voice spoke in meanings but sounded distant to his own ears. Every clock ticked too loud, every reflection stared too long Like dusk. Exhaustion pressed hard behind his eyes. He buttoned his coat and left the firm, telling himself once more that everything was fine.
Speaker 1:The city at night had sharp edges, neon blood in the puddles. Bars yawned open, spilling bodies into the cold. From a doorway came the jagged stern of Pearl Jams. Alive, eddie Vedder's voice carried into the street, ragged and unrelenting oh I, oh, oh, I am still alive. The lyric mocked him. Now its weight unbearable.
Speaker 1:He pulled his collar higher, quickened his pace and told himself he didn't care. But he did. Words followed him like footsteps. The garage beneath his building glowed with fluorescent light, sterile and humming. He pulled the BMW into the space, cut the engine and sat still. Silence wrapped him thick as cotton. He reached for his briefcase, then froze On the windshield. Folded square of paper lied against the glass. A folded square of paper lied against the glass, held in place by the wiper blade. His stomach dropped.
Speaker 1:Slowly, carefully, he stepped out of the car. His shoes clicked against the concrete, echoing too loud. The garage stretched around him, empty, too empty. Pulled the paper free. The fold was precise, deliberate. His fingers shook as he opened it. Four words stared back at him in the dark ink, written, steady and sure I see you, brother.
Speaker 1:The garage was silent, but his pulse roared. Brother, he had no brother. His mother told him that his entire life he was her only son, her only gift. The note crumpled in his fist, damp with sweat, he shoved into his pocket and scanned the rows of cars, the shadows between pillars. Nothing moved, no one stood there. But the silence didn't feel empty, it felt occupied. As he stepped into the elevator, the mirror walls multiplied him again. He straightened his tie, watching each reflection follow, except one. It lingered, it smiled, and then the doors closed.
Speaker 1:Part One the Windshield. The paper sat heavy in his pocket, though it weighted less than an ounce. Aston gripped the string real tighter than necessary. His knuckles wide against the leather. He told himself to focus on the road, to let the hum of the BMW calm him, to let the city's rhythm pull him back into routine. But his mind kept circling again and again back to the folded square, pressing against his chest. I see you, brother, words pulsed with every heartbeat. The radio clicked alive with static, before the station locked in. Rem's Losing my Religion spilled into the car. Michael Stipe's voice, thin and aching that's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my Religion. Ashton's jaw clenched. He wanted silence, but he didn't change the station. The song felt chosen. It always felt chosen.
Speaker 1:Now the chorus swelled as he passed a row of storefronts, their glass reflecting him in fragments, the driver's face in one pane, his hands on the wheel in another. His eyes caught in a third. Each reflection lagged a breath behind. He forced his eyes forward. At a red light, his pulse quickened. Across the intersection, a man in a long coat stood motionless. The crowd parted around him, people hurrying across with coffees and briefcases. But the man didn't move. His head angled just slightly toward Aston. The light changed.
Speaker 1:Aston pressed the accelerator hard, tires squealing against the wet asphalt. He didn't look back until the next block. When he did, the corner was empty. He told himself. It was a coincidence, just a stranger, just exhaustion. But the words in his pocket burned hotter. I see you, brother.
Speaker 1:The song ended Static, filled the car until another signal broke through, nirvana's Come as you Are, the same song you heard outside the record shop yesterday morning. Kurt Cobain's voice was ragged and mocking. Take your time, hurry up. The choice is yours, don't be late. He hasn't reached for the dial, but his hand froze. He couldn't turn it off, couldn't risk the silence.
Speaker 1:The lyric followed him all the way to his building. In the garage, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing harsh shadows across empty spaces. He parked quickly, his movements too sharp, his breath unsteady. The note felt radioactive in his pocket, poisoning the air around him. He scanned the rows of cars empty, too empty. His shoes echoed against the concrete as he walked to the elevator, each step returning to him as if it was a half-beat late, like a second set of footsteps just behind. Press the button. When the doors opened, the mirrored walls multiplied him into infinity. He smoothed his tie watching each reflection follow. Almost one lingered. Its mouth curved just slightly, almost amused.
Speaker 1:The elevator carried him upward and silent, inside the apartment, he set the note on the kitchen counter, flat centered, innocent, but the whole entire room bent around it as though gravity itself had shifted. He poured a scotch, lifted it halfway to his lips and froze. From the street below, faint but deliberate, pearl Jams Alive drifted upward. Eddie Vedder's voice, raw and relentless oh I, oh, I'm still alive. The lyric rattled him like prophecy. He set the glass down untouched. The note waited.
Speaker 1:Part 2, the Watcher. The note didn't stay quiet. It lay on the ground all morning While Aston tried to move through his rituals Coffee tie, polished shoes. Every time he passed the kitchen his eyes dragged back to it. By the time he slipped it into his pocket, the crease already worn soft from his constant folding and unfolding, it felt less like paper and more like a scar.
Speaker 1:At the firm he wore his mask as best as he could. He shook hands, returned smiles, offered polished faces. He hadn't spoken a thousand times already. When he went passing, aston Cross was the same man they had plotted days ago. But he knew better. Maybe they did too.
Speaker 1:Nain Torres was the first to show it. She leaned against his office doorframe file in hand, eyes sharper than the words she used. You look tired, she said. Torres smiled Hm, yeah, I know, late night, funny. She went on tapping the file against her palm. I thought I saw you again Down near the canal. You looked different. Her stomach nodded. I wasn't downtown. She held her gaze too long. Her smile was thin, skeptical. I guess I was mistaken. She dropped the file on his desk and left. The silence that followed was heavier than her presence In the afternoon during deposition.
Speaker 1:The mask cracked again. It was a simple question when he should have objected to one instinct. Instead, the words slipped past him before he realized. The opposite counsel smirked. The client's expression faltered. When the session ended, elliot pulled him aside. You're distracted. Elliot said Not accusation, not concern, a statement of fact. I'm fine. Aston replied too quickly. Elliot studied him for a beat longer. His eyes unreadable. Then let him go. His hand lingered on Ashton's shoulder a second too long and that second stayed with him.
Speaker 1:By dusk, the city pressed harder. Ashton walked home instead of taking the car, needing the air. Manhattan streets felt alive in ways they never had before. Every neon sign buzzed louder. Every stranger's gaze langered longer. On the corner, a man in a dark coat stood too still, watching as people surged around him. Aston slowed, chest tightening. The man's head angled just slightly in his direction, eyes unreadable from across the street. A delivery truck rumbled between them. When it passed, the man was gone.
Speaker 1:The sidewalk was ordinary again too ordinary. He walked faster, too sharp, against the pavement. Music bled from every doorway, every passing car, from a bar, metallica's Unforgiven. What I felt, what I've known, never shined through in what I've shown From a passing cab, seals crazy. We're never going to survive unless we get a little crazy.
Speaker 1:The words chased him up the block, each lyric sharper than footsteps. By the time he reached his building, sweat dampened his collar. Despite the February cold, the garage hummed with frost and light. Again Same Han. He began to dread. His footstep echoed against the concrete. Too loud, too lonely. Yet halfway to the elevator the echo shifted. Are these the footsteps I have to be behind? He spun. Breath, caught Nothing, only rows of sleeping cars and that long stretch of shadow between pillars. Still, his skin prickled with the certainty that someone was there.
Speaker 1:Back inside his apartment, he set the note on the counter. Again, it sat small and white and silent, with the room bent around it warped, as if gravity itself belonged to those four words. He poured a drink, though his hand shook enough that the ember sloshed across the counter. He didn't wipe it up Through the window. The city glittered like it had every night alive, restless, watching From the street below, faint but deliberate. Eddie Vedder's voice rose again alive. Something wrong here? She said. Of course there is course through it. You're still alive, he said. The lyric cut into him, cruel and relentless. He pressed his palm flat against the counter, whispering into the silence who are you? No answer came, but the note did not need to speak. It already had said enough.
Speaker 1:Part 3. The Sleepless Hours. The note stayed on the counter. He tried to tuck it back into his pocket, tried to fold it into the briefcase With the case files, but each time he moved it something pulled him back, but remained there, square and silent, while Aston circled it like prey, avoiding the predator it didn't want to see. He poured another scotch, drank half of it too quickly and sank into the leather chair by the window. The city, sprawled below restless and bright Bridges, glimmered with traffic. Neon signs blinked with coded urgency. Every car horn sounded sharp like a warning. He should have been sleeping. He told himself that he had work in the morning Debt positions, a strategy session with Elliot, but the thought of lying in bed with the notes still breathing in his apartment felt impossible.
Speaker 1:We stayed in the chair and watched the clock ticked past midnight. The silence was thick but not empty. Each creak of the building stretched too long. The hum of the refrigerator became a pulse no-transcript. He turned on the radio just to fill the void Static hiss before locking onto a station. The jangling guitar of REM's Losing my Religion filled the apartment Every whisper Of every waking hour. I'm choosing my confessions.
Speaker 1:Aspen exhaled long and uneven. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. The words pressed harder with every line oh no, I've said too much, I haven't said enough. He clicked the radio off. The silence that followed was worse. His eyes drifted to the window. His reflection glowed faintly in the glass, shoulders slouched, jaw tight. For a moment it seemed to watch him instead of mirror him. He forced himself to look away, pacing instead, crossed the kitchen, poured another drink, opened the fridge though he wasn't hungry closed it again. He checked the locks twice, each time testing the handle longer than necessary. Still, the note sat waiting, picked it up again, unfolded it, started the four words as if they might change. See you, brother? He turned the paper over blank, yelled against the light. Nothing, just ink, just words. But they pulsed in him like blood Between the morning.
Speaker 1:He tried the bedroom. He lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The sheets were crisp, too crisp. The silence pressed too close. He rolled on his side, then his back then sat up again. The phone rang. He snatched the receiver, claire, claire, static, then breathing Faint. But there, who is this? Who is this? His voice cracked in the quiet. No answer, just one long exhale, then the line went dead. He slammed the receiver down, heart pounding. He picked it up again immediately, dialed Claire's number from memory. It didn't connect. He left the receiver off the hook. The city drone of the deadline filled the room like a scream. At three he turned to the chair by the window. The city still pulsed as if it never slept Down the street.
Speaker 1:A bar door opened and the course of an avonis smells like teen spirit bled upward in the night. Here we are now, entertain us. Lurk rattled through him, jagged and mocking. He pressed his forehead against the glass, whispering why me, why me? His reflection whispered it back by four. His chest ached with exhaustion. He rubbed his eyes until the darkness behind his lid swirled with patterns, without Elliot's hand on his shoulder, earlier A Janine's voice. He looked different, different. The words stuck like a splinter. He looked at the note again. It lay open on the counter, now its words, visible even from across the room.
Speaker 1:Brother, he shook his head. He had no brother. His mother made that abundantly clear. She said it was such force, such conviction that he never doubted until now. Until this, the night stretched too long. The silence grew teeth. Every sound became a threat, every reflection a question.
Speaker 1:An Aston Cross, golden Boy, manhattan. A man, celebrated as the future, sat sleepless in his apartment Clutching a glass. He couldn't finish Staring at four words that had already begun Don't make him. I see you, brother, part 4. The call that doesn't end. The telephone had become the enemy, sent on the nightstand like an accusation, heavy and waiting, its cord coiled like a serpent. All his life the phone had been a tether To the firm, to Elliot, to clients, to Claire. Connection was its promise, but now connection was the threat.
Speaker 1:Aston hasn't slept. His eyes burn from staring at the ceiling, at the city, at his own reflection, on the glass. Each time he closed them, the four words crawled across the inside of his skull I see you, brother. The phrase looped in time with his pulse until he didn't know which came first, the heartbeat or the thought. So when the phone rang again at dawn, it felt like inevitability. He snatched it up, throat dry.
Speaker 1:Claire, claire. Static answered first, like the sea, then her voice, her voice, aston. Sneeze nearly buckled, clutched the receiver tighter. Claire, thank God I've been. He stopped. What could he say? That the silence was haunted. That the reflections no longer bade him, that a folded square of paper had stripped him of his sleep. Insanity. I wanted to hear you, he said. Instead, his voice was breaking. You sound tired? She murmured her French vowels, stretched by distance and static.
Speaker 1:I haven't slept, he admitted. Why not? Because someone is watching me, Because someone knows me in a way, I don't know myself, because a word I should never have to answer is whispering inside every silence. He forced a laugh. You know work, the award, you know how it is. It was quiet for a moment. Then I wish I had been there. The line crackled, her voice dipped in and out, fractured by bad connection. I proud Aston. And then silence. He pressed the receiver harder against his ear. Claire, claire, claire, are you there? Nothing, just static fading to the drone of the deadline.
Speaker 1:He kept the receiver to his ear long enough after she was gone, he listened, as though the silence might shift into breath again, as though her voice might crawl back through. Finally his hand fell to his lap, the phone heavy against his thigh. He didn't hang up, he couldn't. The line stayed open, humming, taunting At the firm. He was a shadow of himself. He stumbled through meetings, forgetting points he had, through meetings, forgetting points he had rehearsed a thousand times. His voice cracked in the courtroom, words slipping from him like broken teeth. Elliot's eyes sharpened Get some rest, he told him. Half mentor, half warning. It means Glaze lingered in hallways. Again. Too sharp, too curious. Fasten adjusted his tie, forced his smile to hold. He saw if he could still hold it together. But the note was still in his pocket. Each time he sat, it pressed against him. Each time he moved, it reminded him it was still there and the phone was still waiting at home.
Speaker 1:That night he tried not to answer. He let it ring Once, twice, three times. By the fourth he snatched it up anyways. Static, claire, claire. Are you there? Claire, breathing, slow and patient. Who is this? His voice cracked in the quiet. Nothing. The line stayed open. He slammed the receiver down. It rang again instantly. He froze staring at it. The sound filling the apartment. He didn't answer. It rang until it didn't sound like a ring anymore. It sounded like a heartbeat, it sounded like laughter. He tore the cord from the wall, chest heaving. The ringing stopped, silence filled the apartment, heavy and triumphant, and from the street below, faint but clear, Nirvana's come as you are, drifted upward from the car stereo at the curb. Take your time, hurry up. The choice is yours, don't be late. Aston gripped the dead phone in his hand, whispering in a silence. Why me? Why fucking me? The silence whispered back. I see you, brother.
Speaker 1:Part 5 Cracks in the Firm. The office had always been an Ashton sanctuary. Warren and Keller was a kingdom of glass and marble. It's well aligned with degrees and victories. He, he was more than a man, he was a force. Colleagues deferred to him, clients trusted him, judges respected him. It was the one place where the mask never slipped, because the mask was him. But not anymore. Now. Every reflective surface in the office betrayed him. The glass table in the conference room warped his smallness something unfamiliar. The polished elevator door stretched his shadow too thin, even the framed photograph of the partners, elliot's hand on his shoulder. Ashton's smile, sharp and perfect, looked like a memory belonging to someone else and everyone seemed to notice.
Speaker 1:Began with Jean again. She lingered in his office doorway. Notice Began with Jean again. She lingered in his office doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning in the way she might scan a contract for hidden clauses. Rough night. You forced your grin. Yeah, a late one. Elliot still had me talking strategy at midnight.
Speaker 1:She didn't smile back. Funny, I thought I saw you again near 12th Street last night. You were. She hesitated. You looked upset, stomach clenched. He shook his head. I wasn't there. Well, it must have been something else then or someone else.
Speaker 1:The words were the same as before, but her voice carried more certainty this time, or maybe less doubt. She closed the door behind her as she left. The silence that followed her was louder than an accusation. Later, in her disposition, ashton stumbled just for a moment. But enough. A simple objection that should have come instinctively, stuck in his throat. He paused too long, shuffled his paper as though he was searching for something obvious. The opposing counsel smirked, the client's eyes narrowed. When it was over, elliot pulled him aside. You're distracted. Elliot said. Not a question, a verdict. I'm fine. Aston's voice was too quick. Elliot studied him. His weathered face, unreadable. Whatever is keeping you up, handle it. You're too valuable to let cracks show now. The word stuck cracks. He straightened his tie lifted his chin. It won't happen again. But Elliot's hand lingered on his shoulder a bit too long before letting go.
Speaker 1:By evening, esten sat alone in his office. The city glowed beyond the window, fractured by the glass. He stared at his reflection in the pain. His own eyes glared back, but not with confidence, with suspicion. The note was still in his pocket, the edges dug into his thigh. Whenever he shifted it was as if the words have carved themselves into him. He pulled it out, unfolded it on the desk, then glared against the lamplight.
Speaker 1:I see you, brother, the lamplight. I see you, brother. The word pulsed brother. He pressed his palms flat against the desk, trying to study his breathing. He told himself again no, brother, he was the only child. His mother said so. She had always said so. But the more he repeated it the less it felt true.
Speaker 1:He left the office late. The halls were quiet, emptied of laughter and phones and footsteps. His shoes echoed too loudly as he walked towards the elevator. Somewhere in the distance, faint but unmistakable Music drifted through the floor, a janitor's radio, maybe, or someone's cassette left running Pearl's jam alive. Is there something wrong? She said. Of course there is. You're still alive, she said. Oh, do I deserve to be? Is that the question? The lyric followed him all the way down the elevator, lingering in the mirrored walls. His reflection looked back, tired, almost smirking. When the doors opened into the lobby, the song still rang in his ears Still alive, still alive, still alive.
Speaker 1:He walked faster Back at the apartment. He tossed the note onto the counter with more force than necessary. It skidded across the marble, spinning to a stop. He poured another drink, ignoring how his hand shook. He tried to call Claire again, the line didn't connect. He left the phone off the hook, letting the hum fill the apartment like static against the silence. Then he sank into the chair by the window, staring at his reflection. The reflection stared back perfect, polished, untouchable. Well, almost Part 6. The Sleepless City.
Speaker 1:The city did not sleep, and neither did he. It was past midnight when Aston realized he had not even tried to lie down. The bed remained untouched, seats crisp, as if mocking him. He'd been pacing instead, moving from the kitchen to the living room, to the window and back again, a restless orbit around the note still lying on the counter. Every time he tried to ignore it, his eyes dragged back white, square, black ink, four words that already unraveled two days of his life. I see you, brother. The words burned. Brother, a word that shouldn't belong to him, a word that cracked open questions he had no answers for. The city outside pulsed with its own insomnia. From his window he saw neon, flicker taxis cutting across intersections, bars exhaling their patrons and clouds of smoke and laughter. But it wasn't life he saw, it was performance, the kind of performance he knew too well Loud, bright and distracting. He pressed his forehead against the glass. Bright and distracting. He pressed his forehead against the glass, whispering what do you want from me? The reflection whispering nothing. Back At one in the morning he tried the radio again.
Speaker 1:He said a kiss before music crawled through Ravonna's small like teen spirit. When the light's out, it's less dangerous. Here we are now, entertain us. The lines scraped through him, jagged and relentless. He clicked the dial off. Silence rushed in heavier than sound. Minutes later, music leaked up through the street below Seals crazy, muffled but clear. But we're never going to survive Unless we get a little crazy. The lyric climbed the walls of the apartment like ivy coiling around him. He pressed his palms against his ears, but the words threaded through anyways by too.
Speaker 1:Exhaustion blurred his vision. He slumped in a leather chair staring at the skyline. Glass cold against his temple, he told himself he'd close his eyes just for a minute. By the time they shut, the note appeared behind them, not just the words, the hand that wrote them. He couldn't see the face, but he felt the presence. Patient Watching, he jerked away again and again, sweat slick on his skin, heart pounding.
Speaker 1:At three the phone rang. He froze. He had left it off the hook earlier, dead and droning. Yet now it rang, clear and sharp. His chest tightened as he lifted it Claire, claire, breathing slow, steady, not hers, not anyone he knew. Who is this, who is this? His voice cracked in the receiver no answer. He slammed the phone down, tearing the cord free.
Speaker 1:The silence that followed was worse by four. His reflection in the window no longer looked tired. It looked alive, awake, waiting. He stared at it until his eyes burned, until his body trembled with the need for rest. Finally he staggered into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed fully dressed, pulled the covers over his head like a child. The city outside still pulsed, music drifting faintly through the glass, rem again. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion. The lyric pressed into him as he slipped into half sleep In the glass of the window. His reflection did not close its eyes, it stayed awake Watching Aston's monologue.
Speaker 1:It was only four words, that's what I kept telling myself. Just four words on a folded square of paper. I've argued cases that hinged on entire volumes of evidence. I've dismantled testimonies with nothing more than a phrase. And here I am, undone by four words. I see you, brother, I have no brother. My mother told me that. She swore it into me, her only son, her only child.
Speaker 1:I believed it my whole life, until last night, until this morning, until now, when I can't look at the reflection without wondering if it's mine or his. What if that's not a lie? What if the note wasn't a threat but a truth? I was never meant to know. What if someone has been here all along in the cracks of my life, watching and waiting? I try to tell myself it's exhaustion. That's what Elliot would say, that's what Claire would say. But exhaustion doesn't make strangers call me in the dark. Exhaustion doesn't make strangers call me in the dark. Exhaustion doesn't make colleagues insist they saw me in places I've never been. Exhaustion doesn't make music follow me through the streets whispering like prophecies. I should burn the note, tear it up, flush it, erase it, but I can't, because if I do, I'll never know Four words, I can't escape them.
Speaker 1:Let's get into my monologue now. You felt it, didn't you? That, slow, unraveling the note, tucked beneath the wiper, waiting to you know, like a seat of doubt. The way Ashton carried it everywhere, as if leaving behind would make it grow teeth and run away. The way people began to notice things that didn't align. You know Janine swearing she saw him somewhere he wasn't Elliot catching cracks in his voice. And the music? Did you hear the way he did, how it was affecting him? Nirvana, rem, seal, metallica, not random, not background. Each lyric pressing into the wound, each song arriving at the exact moment the least wanted to hear it. The city is singing to him and the songs aren't celebration, they're accusation, they're the predator's whisper.
Speaker 1:Because the truth is this paranoia doesn't arrive with blood and knives. It begins with paper, with words, with silence that lingers a little too long. It begins with someone knowing you better than you know yourself and Aston. He's beginning to understand that perfection can't save him from this, that the mask doesn't really matter, that the applause doesn't matter. Four words have undone him more than any courtroom loss ever could.
Speaker 1:What about you? What notes have been left on your windshield? What whispers have you followed, or I should say, have followed you until the silence of your nights? What truths do you avoid because they threaten the mask you've built? Because the predator isn't just out there. It lives in the cracks of what you refuse to face and if you don't face it, it'll face you. So let's go ahead and let's get into the reflection.
Speaker 1:Questions. Number one what small note in your life have you been ignoring and pretending it's not important? Those small things always catch up to you. Number two who or what feels like it's watching you, not literally, but in the choices you make and the truth that you avoid? Number three when people hint that they see a different version of you, do you dismiss it or do you ask why? Number four what music, words or messages have you been repeating in your life like whispers you won't admit to hear, or admit that you hear? I should say, and this is a big one. Number five what truth would undo the mask you spent years perfecting and what would happen if it surfaced? Sometimes, when we face those truths, we write it down and we really look at them, we realize that we give so much power to things that don't deserve it.
Speaker 1:So you know, guys, this is going to be a really fun series because it's going to be different. And you know we're watching somebody slowly unravel, but just to know, there's nothing else that's been done yet, and I'm just going to tell you this right now. There are more things coming to Aston. I'm telling you this right now. More things are going to start happening. So I'm not going to tell you what's going to happen, but more things are going to start happening to him, and the thing about it is this is going to be a wild, wild, wild ride. So buckle up because it's going to get amazing.
Speaker 1:As I'm talking about this, you know I was looking over some stats or whatever, and if you haven't listened to the last series, death of Peace of Mind, please go ahead and listen to that. It was an amazing series. Ahead and listen to that. It was an amazing series. And what's crazy about coming into this series? I see that a lot about 80. This is what the stats show me anyways. Well, 80 of the people that follow that series are now following this series.
Speaker 1:So I want to thank you so much for your continue listenership. It just, it just means the world to me because, realistically, I'm talking to myself. When I'm doing this stuff, there's no one around, it's just me talking to screens. So it means a lot that you guys are listening and also, with that too, all the messages that I get from you guys and emails and DMs and that kind of stuff. I read all of them and I respond to all of them. So, again, thank you so much for doing that as well too.
Speaker 1:And as we're talking about show support, it's super easy to do and it doesn't cost you anything. It literally takes you seconds. First way to support the show is very easy Write a review. Reviews do wonders, for this show Does wonders. So if you could write just a simple review, that'd be amazing. Second way is share this with a family member or a friend. That also would be amazing. Okay Now, as we're talking about how I talk with you guys, if this is your first time listening, it's very easy to get a hold of me.
Speaker 1:Okay, there's three ways. First way is on the description of this podcast. There's something there like in the description it'll say let's chat. You click on that. You and I can have a conversation about this episode, this series, the 14 or 15 other series that are out there and the 300 plus episodes that are in the Gents Journey catalog. It's crazy how much is out there, but so yeah, like I said, those are ways to reach out to me. So again, guys, I want to thank you so very much from the bottom of my heart for listening today, to thank you so very much from the bottom of my heart for listening today and remember this you create your reality. Take care. Bye.