Let me take a moment to address the sheer fucking absurdity of what I'd just done. Here I was—plummeting forty stories toward certain death—all because I decided to play hero for a woman I'd known for exactly three hours. Three hours. That's not even enough time for Amazon Prime same-day delivery, but apparently it was enough for me to risk splattering my enhanced ass across Collins Avenue.
What kind of brain-dead, testosterone-poisoned logic was that?
I could've walked away. Could've grabbed Amanda, tucked her in with Madison, whispered a quick "you'll be fine, babe" like some bargain-bin James Bond, and then drafted a smarter rescue plan for Charlotte's mom—because let's face it, kidnappers don't kill their bargaining chip early.
Basic logic. Common sense.
But no. Instead of common sense, I decided to channel Tom Cruise's Scientology-fueled insanity and BASE jump without a parachute.
