The Morning After
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You wake up on a mattress on the floor in South Tel Aviv. The humidity is already at 80%. Your head is pounding—a mix of last night's cheap arak and the lingering chemical taste of the state-prescribed amphetamines.
You check your banking app. Red numbers. A massive minus. The trip to Kazakhstan burned everything, and the bridge with your parents is ash. You have nothing but the pills on the nightstand and a notification on your phone.
It's Maya. She's in Paris. She wants you there. "I'll pay for everything," the message reads. "Just come. Be mine again."
Your keys are missing. Again.