Thursday evening, Emma arrived. She'd taken the train down from Manchester, a surprise visit that felt like a lifeline.
I was in my office, buried under a mountain of paperwork and video footage, my eyes burning from staring at the screen for too long, when she walked in.
She didn't say anything, just stood there for a moment, taking in the mess, the empty coffee cups, the dark circles under my eyes.
"You look like shit," she said, her voice a mixture of concern and amusement. I laughed, a tired, hollow sound.
"I feel like shit," I admitted. She came over, wrapped her arms around me from behind, and rested her chin on my shoulder.
"You're working too hard," she said softly. "You can't save everyone, Danny."
