Chapter 2

Thirty minutes later, urgent footsteps echoed in the hallway outside my apartment.

Tag immediately became alert, rushing to the door with a low, threatening growl.

I peered through the peephole and saw a familiar figure standing outside—Ryan, wearing a wrinkled white coat, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and complex emotions.

"Wow, you got here in thirty minutes? Did you fly over?" I said with forced casualness as I opened the door.

Cold wind and the smell of disinfectant rushed into the room together. Ryan coldly surveyed the apartment, his gaze sweeping over the war photographs on the walls, scattered pill bottles, and the diagnosis report on the table.

"I want to see firsthand how well you're performing this 'death drama.'" He stepped across the threshold, his voice still ice-cold.

Tag showed obvious hostility toward this stranger, his fur standing up, a threatening growl rumbling in his throat.

Ryan's gaze wandered around the room, finally settling on the pill bottles on the table. As a doctor, he could recognize those medications: morphine, pain patches, anti-nausea drugs... These weren't standard PTSD treatment medications.

His expression began to show subtle changes.

His gaze swept across my face with clinical precision: the obvious weight loss, my sunken eyes, the unhealthy yellow pallor of my skin.

I leaned against the doorframe, speaking in that calm tone unique to facing life and death: "Welcome to my farewell performance. I hope your medical eye can give my acting a professional score."

Ryan stood in the center of the living room, his gaze moving between the war photographs, service certificates, and pill bottles, as his inner anger began to be replaced by something more complex...

His voice carried mockery. "Your acting skills are pretty good."

I managed a light laugh. "Thanks for the compliment."

"Playing the victim card pretty convincingly..." Ryan drawled, but I could feel him studying me. "This makeup job could land you a beauty blogger gig."

I moved toward the coffee table, feeling every step like I was walking through quicksand. The fatigue wasn't something I could fake—it lived in my bones now, heavy and permanent.

"Sit." I gestured toward the couch. "I have some things to show you."

From the drawer, I pulled out the manila folder I'd organized with military precision.

Property deed, veteran's insurance policy, photography equipment appraisal, handwritten inventory of my camera collection—everything laid out like a final mission briefing.

"These are all my assets," I said. "Sell the apartment, buy a decent burial plot. Donate the rest to the veteran PTSD foundation. The insurance money will keep Tag comfortable for years, but he needs more than money."

I watched Ryan pick up the property deed.

"You're... writing a will? Planning your funeral?" His voice had lost its certainty.

"What else would I be doing?"

"Tag needs special care—he has battlefield PTSD," I said, kneeling to stroke his head. My knees protested the movement. "I know you're allergic to fur, but please help him find a good military dog adoption family. He saved my life more than once."

Ryan crouched roughly, reaching for Tag's collar like he was testing both the dog and my reaction.

Tag backed away with a warning growl.

I shot forward, firmly pulling Tag away from his reach.

"Ryan!"

Ryan stood and began pacing my small living room, shadows from the desk lamp shifting across his face.

I watched him take in the details: my military-precise organization, the six different prescription bottles on my table, the portable nebulizer in the corner.

Ryan remarked, "Still addicted to your dramatic performances? How long are you planning to keep this act going?"

I settled back into my chair, exhaustion pulling at me like gravity. "Acting? Ryan, do you really think I need to put on a show for you?"

I had no reason to lie to him. We'd been over for three years. If I wanted him back, there were a thousand better lies than terminal cancer.

"Then what do you want?" He stopped moving, his voice beginning to crack. "A second chance?"

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between us. "I want to shoot one last series of photographs..."

My voice barely rose above a whisper. "As my final work. Maybe document something real while I can still hold my camera steady."

Through my lashes, I watched Ryan turn toward the window, staring out at the city lights. I could practically hear the war between his brain and his heart.

"Fine." He turned back to face me. "I'll play along with your performance. What do you want to shoot? Death portraits?"

I managed a bitter smile. "If you're willing to cooperate, I want to photograph something real. Maybe places we used to go. Maybe Tag's daily routine. Maybe..."

I paused, gathering courage for the truth. "Maybe how a former military doctor faces watching someone he once loved die."

Ryan's face went through a dozen emotions in three seconds.

"I'll drive you," he said, his voice hoarse. "But when you're done with this charade, call it quits. Don't actually wear yourself to death."

Tag settled at my feet, those intelligent brown eyes watching both of us.

"What time tomorrow?" Ryan asked.

"Your call." I shrugged, then caught myself. "I've got plenty of time. Just... not much of it left."

Ryan pulled his car keys from his white coat pocket, rotating them in his palm—a nervous habit I remembered from our field days.

"I'm leaving." He headed for the door. "Nine AM tomorrow. I'll pick you up."

I called out, "Ryan."

He stopped. "What?"

"Thank you." The words came out softer than I intended. "Whatever your reasons."

His hand froze on the doorknob. "I just want to see how far you'll take this performance."