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ᴛʜʀᴏᴡʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs ɪ

The rooftop smelled like stale weed and last night’s rain. Someone below had burned popcorn. A siren wailed in the distance, not close, not far. Just enough to remind them they weren’t above it all.

Hypnos lay flat on the concrete, hoodie hood up, earphones in but unplugged. He stared up at the slice of dull blue sky like it might split open and give him something more useful than a future he didn’t want.

Asher sat cross-legged beside him, back to the crumbling brick ledge, a cigarette burning down slow between his fingers. He didn’t smoke much, just when he felt too clean. Too prepared. Tonight, he felt too much of everything.

“Asher Rockford,” Hypnos said, like he was tasting the weight of it. “Sounds like a brand of expensive disappointment.”
Asher smirked. “Says the guy who renamed himself after a god because he couldn’t stand sharing a name with his grandfather.”
“I prefer poetic disassociation.”
“You prefer drama.”
“I prefer survival.”

They didn’t talk much about the old names. Rockford. Petryaev. Inherited brands carved into bloodlines. Not boys, but heirs. Not students, but futures already signed in ink.

Asher exhaled. “Board meeting next week. My father said I’m expected to give input on the Q3 fallout.”
“You’re not even twenty-two.”
“I guess that’s cute to them. Like putting a suit on a golden retriever.”
Hypnos laughed. “You’d be a very aggressive retriever.”
“You’d be a fox in Gucci.”
That earned a smirk. “I only wear Gucci ironically.”
“You wear it because your father would drop dead if you didn’t.”

Hypnos finally turned his head, one earbud falling onto the cracked concrete. “He wouldn’t drop dead. Just cut me off and leave me to rot in some off-brand university with people named Chad who actually enjoy contract law.”

Asher studied him for a moment.

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