My wife's first love was bound to an "overachiever" system—every ounce of exhaustion he racked up from grinding away at work got transferred straight to me.

He pulled seven straight all-nighters to land a multi-million-dollar deal and became a legend in the industry. Meanwhile, I ended up in the ER with heart failure.

When I tried to explain it to my wife, she shot me a look of pure disgust. "You're just born lazy," she snapped. "You can't stand seeing him succeed at such a young age, so you make up some sick fairy tale to accuse him."

After that, every late night he pulled chipped away at my body. First came nervous exhaustion, then organ failure—until I was hanging on by a thread.

I went to the hospital for tests, but the doctors couldn't find a thing. A few even hinted I might be suffering from paranoid delusions.

Then, to get his company listed on the stock exchange, he locked himself in his office for two weeks straight. I wound up dead from overexertion in my own room.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the night of his very first all-nighter.

This time, I bolted the door, pulled out a full strip of sleeping pills, and smiled.

"Time to sleep."

My heart seized like an invisible fist had closed around it, squeezing tight. The crushing suffocation jolted me upright in bed.

Cold sweat soaked through my pajamas in seconds.

I gasped for air, eyes darting around the room.

I wasn't dead.

A glance at the clock told me I was back on the night of Todd Bren's very first all-nighter.

In my last life, that was the night my existence turned into a slow, drawn-out execution.

Todd was Anne Graves's first love—and her business partner. A born workaholic, worshipped by the entire company as some kind of productivity god. He could lock himself in for seven days straight, barely sleeping, just to nail a project, walk away with a ten-million-dollar contract, and soak up everyone's adoration like it was his due.

And me? As Anne's husband, I'd end up in the hospital after every one of his manic work binges.

Nerve damage. Heart palpitations. Chest tightness. Eventually, heart failure.

When I tried to explain the sick connection to Anne, she brushed it off as melodrama.

"Can you grow up, Brett? Todd is killing himself for our future. Instead of appreciating that, you're playing the victim for sympathy?"

Her eyes were full of disappointment and contempt.

"If you're jealous, just say so. Don't stoop to this kind of low-blow garbage."

From that point on, every late-night Todd pulled became a death sentence for me. My health spiraled—insomnia, arrhythmia, shortness of breath. But every hospital visit turned up nothing. No physical cause. No explanation.

Eventually, doctors suggested I see a psychiatrist. They thought I was suffering from paranoid delusions.

And Anne? She just grew to hate me more. In her eyes, I was nothing but a lazy, spiteful husband who couldn't stand seeing someone else succeed.

Then, right before the company's IPO, Todd locked himself in his office for two straight weeks to make the final push. And I—right there in the home we'd once shared—dropped dead from overexertion.

My spirit drifted above the scene. I watched Anne throw her arms around Todd, kissing his forehead in a frenzy.

"We did it, Todd! Once the company stabilizes, I'm divorcing that dead weight and marrying you. We'll have a grand wedding!"

Now, I'm back.

That familiar suffocating pressure hit my chest again. I knew what it meant—Todd was pulling another all-nighter at the office.

If his exhaustion gets transferred to me, then what happens if I fall asleep? Does he have to sleep too? I wondered.

This time, I didn't panic like before. I didn't beg for help.

Calmly, I pulled a full strip of sleeping pills from my drawer. I'm a therapist—I'd kept them around for a case study on chronic insomnia.

I popped the entire strip, washed it down with water, without a second's hesitation.

The sedatives hit fast. A heavy fog rolled over my mind.

I lay back, closed my eyes, and just before consciousness slipped away, I murmured, "Goodnight, Todd."

…

I thought I'd sleep straight through till morning. But in the dead of night, a razor-sharp headache ripped me awake.

It felt like someone was driving steel needles into my temples, twisting them in slow circles.

I felt agony. Bone-deep agony.

I clawed my way upright, trembling all over. I'd slept for hours, but my body felt more wrecked than before I'd closed my eyes.

The sleeping pills hadn't worked.

I'd forced myself unconscious, but I couldn't stop the exhaustion from bleeding through. Worse, with the drugs still in my system, my senses were dialed up to eleven—every ounce of that fatigue and pain hit me twice as hard.

Just then, Anne's phone lit up on the nightstand.

It was an Instagram post from Todd. A photo of him hunched over his desk in the office, pen in hand, under the glow of a desk lamp. The caption read: [The most beautiful nights are the ones burned for your dreams.]

In the photo, his eyes were bright, his expression sharp—not a trace of exhaustion.

And in the comments, Anne's like and reply sat right at the top: [Stay strong, my man. You're killing it.]

I grabbed her phone, pulled up Todd's profile, and hit the video call button.

He picked up almost instantly.

His face filled the screen, clear as day.

"Brett? What's up? Why aren't you asleep yet?"

Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I locked eyes with him through the screen. "Todd, what the hell did you do to me? Why do I feel like death every time you pull an all-nighter?"

A few seconds of silence. Then a low chuckle—dripping with mockery and malice, completely unguarded.

"Brett, you're not making any sense. What's the matter, jealous that Anne's been singing my praises? I didn't realize grown men could have such fragile egos.

"Look, some people are just wired differently. I've got more energy than most—it's a gift. You can't fake that."

"Cut the act! You know exactly what's going on!" I was practically screaming now.

"Please, just stop. I'm begging you..." My head was splitting open. I could barely hold onto the phone.

"Brett, honestly? You're just sad.

"But hey, what can you do? You're dead weight. All you do is hold Anne back.

"Oh, and one more thing—I'm pulling an all-nighter tonight. Gonna knock this proposal out in one go. Try to hang in there, yeah?"

He didn't give me a chance to respond. The screen went dark.

My ears were ringing. My vision blurred. The phone slipped from my hand, and I pitched forward off the bed, unconscious before I hit the floor.

…

I woke up in a VIP hospital room.

The sharp sting of antiseptic. The cold, rhythmic beep of monitors.

Anne sat beside the bed, her face a mask of impatience and contempt. She gave not a word of concern. Just a blunt, cutting interrogation.

"What is your deal this time? You had me drag you to the ER in the middle of the night just for attention?"

My chest still ached with a dull, pervasive pain. Even breathing felt like work.

"I—"

"I what?" She cut me off, sharp as a knife. "The doctors said it's stress and overexertion. I told you to just stay home and rest. What exactly do you have to be stressed about?"

"It's Todd..." I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

"Again with Todd!" Anne shot to her feet, towering over me, her eyes blazing with disgust and disappointment. "Can't you, for once, just be happy for him? The company is at a make-or-break moment, and he's carrying all of it on his shoulders! You don't support him, you don't encourage him—all you do is sit around and conjure up these sick fantasies about him!

"Let me be crystal clear—stop this pathetic crusade against Todd. He's the most important partner I have in this business. If you sabotage him, I will never forgive you."

…

I spent three days in the hospital, then I was discharged.

Todd hadn't pulled any more all-nighters during that time, and my body had started to recover—a little.

I grabbed Anne's phone and texted Todd, mimicking her tone. Said I wasn't feeling well and needed him to swing by the house to grab an urgent document for her.

He didn't suspect a thing. Thirty minutes later, he was at the door.

Dressed in a crisp business suit, face fresh and glowing. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine.

Standing next to him, I looked like a ghost—pale, hollow, barely holding it together.

"Brett, where's the file?" His tone was polite but guarded.

I didn't answer. Instead, I handed him a glass of water.

"Have a drink first. You look like you ran all the way here."

He hesitated, then took it and drank. What he didn't know was that I'd laced it with a sedative I used in my practice for hypnotherapy sessions.

The air in the room was thick with the faint, calming scent of sandalwood incense—also prepped in advance.

I guided him to the couch, using the same calm, steady induction techniques I'd perfected over years of clinical work, easing him into a trance.

"Todd, look into my eyes.

"You're tired now. Very tired. You want to sleep..."

His gaze started to go slack. His breathing slowed, evening out.

"Tell me," I murmured, low and deliberate, "why does your exhaustion... become mine?"

Todd's lips parted slightly, the truth hovering on the edge of his tongue—and then came the deafening crash of the front door being kicked open.

Anne stormed in, face blazing with fury. She shoved me aside and rushed to the couch, frantically checking on Todd's condition.

"Brett! You insane bastard! What the hell are you doing to Todd?!"

She whirled around, her eyes bloodshot, boring into me like she wanted to tear me apart with her bare hands.

"I should've seen this coming. You're just jealous—you can't stand that Todd is better than you! So you try to destroy him with some cheap, cowardly trick!"

My body was so wrecked from the last few days that I had no strength to resist. Her shove sent me stumbling into the corner of the coffee table. A searing pain shot through my ribs.

"I wasn't—"

"Don't you dare lie to me!" Anne cut me off, yanking the strip of sleeping pills from my bag. Her face twisted into something ugly. "You say you're exhausted? I think you're just bored out of your mind. Since you love sleeping so much, I'll make sure you get your fill!"

She lunged at me, her fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my mouth open. She crammed the entire strip of pills past my lips, then grabbed the water glass from the table and tipped it down my throat.

"Drink! Every last one of them!"

The icy water mixed with the bitter, chalky pills flooded my windpipe. I choked, gagged, tears streaming down my face as I coughed uncontrollably.

She watched me gasping on the floor, not an ounce of pity in her eyes.

"If you ever lay a finger on Todd again, I'll make you disappear. Permanently."

She helped the still-dazed Todd to his feet, cradling him like he was some priceless treasure, and swept out of the apartment.

The door slammed shut behind them, sealing me off from the world.

I lay crumpled on the floor, jamming my fingers down my throat, forcing myself to vomit up the pills she'd crammed down me.

My stomach churned violently, but I didn't care. With the last shred of strength I had, I crawled to the door, pulled it open—and collapsed in the hallway, unconscious.

…

I woke up in a hospital bed. Again.

A nurse told me a neighbor had found me passed out in the hallway and called an ambulance. They'd pumped my stomach, but the overdose had still knocked me out for three days straight.

I lay there, my body weightless, drained of every ounce of energy. Even after sleeping for seventy-two hours, that bone-deep exhaustion clung to me like a second skin.

My chest felt heavy, compressed. Every breath came with a dull, persistent ache.

Anne hadn't visited once.

Good. I didn't want her there anyway.

I stared up at the harsh fluorescent lights, raising a feeble hand to block the glare—then shot upright in bed.

The nurse yelped in protest. I ignored her, yanking the IV out of my arm.

It all clicked into place. The truth hit me like a freight train.

This was how Todd did it. This was how he fed on my life force.

I finally understood.

A few days later, I checked myself out of the hospital. I didn't go home. I took a cab straight to my uncle's holistic wellness retreat upstate.

My grandfather was a well-respected naturopath who'd been practicing integrative medicine for over forty years. When I was a kid with a weak constitution, he'd helped build me back up with supplements, dietary plans, and alternative therapies that actually worked.

The retreat smelled of eucalyptus, lavender, and fresh pine—clean and calming, a world away from the sterile stench of the hospital.

My grandfather took one look at my pale, hollow face and nearly dropped his teacup.

He checked my vitals, ran a few quick assessments, and his brow furrowed deep.

"Kid, what the hell have you done to yourself?" he muttered. "Your blood pressure's bottomed out, your heart rate's irregular, and your nervous system is completely fried. You keep going like this, and you won't last the year."

I didn't explain. I just asked him to help me.

He sighed, shook his head, and wrote out a comprehensive recovery plan—high-dose multivitamins, adaptogenic herbs, amino acid supplements, and a strict anti-inflammatory diet.

Along with the supplements, he designed a daily routine of breathwork and gentle movement exercises.

"Morning and evening, every day," he instructed. "Rebuilds your nervous system, restores your adrenal function. It'll take time, but it'll bring you back from the brink."

He also set me up with weekly IV nutrient therapy sessions—bags of magnesium, zinc, B-complex vitamins, and glutathione dripping straight into my veins. Within minutes of the first session, I could feel the warm flush spreading through my limbs, chasing away the hollow, drained feeling that had become my constant companion.

For the next few weeks, I stayed at my grandfather's retreat. I stuck to the protocol religiously—the supplements, the breathwork, the IV drips, the clean eating. Every day, I felt a little less like a ghost and a little more like a person again.

I blocked out everything about Anne and Todd. No calls. No texts. No social media. I vanished from their world completely.

I was conserving my strength.

Stockpiling my energy.

Waiting.

Because I knew—something was coming. And when it did, I wanted a front-row seat.

Todd, you think you're some kind of productivity machine? You love burning the candle at both ends?

Let's see how long you can last on your own.