The sun was setting over Austin, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and red. Inside his sprawling mansion, Patrick Mahomes paced the length of his home office for the hundredth time that day. The sound of his bare feet against the cold marble floor echoed through the empty space.

“Sir,” his assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom, “the board meeting starts in five minutes.” 

Patrick pressed the button harder than necessary. “Cancel it.”

“But sir, they’re expecting—”

“I said cancel it!” His voice cracked, and he immediately regretted shouting. “Please,” he added softly, “just cancel everything for today.”

He collapsed into his ergonomic chair, the one his physical therapist had insisted he buy. His phone buzzed again—probably another crisis, another demand, another person who needed something from him. He grabbed it, then froze. It was his son.

“Dad, I saw the news. Are you okay?”

Patrick stared at the message until the screen went dark. Was he okay? The question felt like a punch to the gut. When was the last time someone had actually asked him that?

He opened Twitter, his fingers moving on autopilot. The trending topics made him wince: “Mahomes Meltdown,” “Chiefs Stock,” “Patrick the Destroyer.”

“Jarvis, pull up today’s numbers,” he commanded his AI system.

“Sir, the Chiefs stock is down 12.3% following your recent tweets about conspiracy theories,” Jarvis replied.

Patrick rubbed his temples. He didn’t need to hear it again. The media was having a field day with his latest social media outburst. This time, he’d really done it—3 a.m. tweets about conspiracy theories and personal attacks on other athletes had sent the markets into a frenzy.

His phone rang. It was his brother, Jackson. “Not now,” Patrick muttered, letting it go to voicemail. The room felt too small suddenly, the walls closing in. He loosened his tie, but it didn’t help; the silk felt like it was choking him.

“Jarvis, what’s the temperature?”

“The room is maintained at your preferred 72 degrees, sir.”

“Then why can’t I breathe?” He stumbled to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Below, his security team patrolled the grounds, their black suits stark against the manicured lawn—always watching, always protecting, always trapping.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was his therapist. “Mr. Mahomes, I’m concerned about your recent behavior. Please call me back.”

“Delete.” Another buzz. His PR team: “Need statement ASAP regarding recent tweets. Stock in freefall. Please respond.”

“Delete.” He threw the phone across the room, watching with satisfaction as it shattered against the wall. The pieces fell to the floor like rain.

“Sir?” Jarvis’s voice was hesitant. “Would you like me to order a new phone?”

Patrick laughed, but it came out more like a sob. “No, Jarvis. For once in my life, I want silence.”

He walked to his private bathroom, flicking on the harsh fluorescent lights. His reflection made him flinch. When had he gotten so old? The bags under his eyes looked like bruises, his skin pale and waxy. His carefully maintained public image was crumbling, just like everything else.

A knock at the door made him jump. “Mr. Mahomes?” It was Maria, his housekeeper. “Your dinner is ready.”

“Leave it,” he called out.

“Sir, you haven’t eaten all day, and yesterday you only had coffee.” 

“I said leave it.” The words echoed off the bathroom tiles. There was a long pause. “Yes, sir. But my son Xavier asked about you.”

The thought made his stomach turn. Xavier, the housekeeper’s teenage son, the kid who always had his nose in engineering books, who looked at Patrick like he hung the moon. The realization hit him hard. The kid was worried about him.

Patrick caught his reflection again. What did Xavier see when he looked at him? The great quarterback? The man changing the game? Or just another rich guy losing his mind in public?

He opened his medicine cabinet, pushing aside bottles of sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medications. His hand brushed against something soft—an old hoodie he’d kept there after a late-night practice. It was worn at the elbows, stained with sweat and grass. When was the last time he felt real?

He asked his reflection, not Patrick Mahomes the superstar, but just Patrick. He pulled the hoodie on over his expensive dress shirt. The contrast made him laugh—a billion-dollar athlete in a worn-out hoodie. It felt like a metaphor for his life.

Jarvis, show me Xavier’s recent searches on the house Wi-Fi.

“Sir, that would be an invasion of privacy.”

“Override code: MahomesAlpha7.”

Title: A Seat at the Table (Continued)

A holographic display appeared, showing Xavier’s recent searches. Patrick’s heart sank as he read the queries: “local food banks,” “job listings,” and “how to help someone having a mental breakdown.” The kid was worried about him—the kid who had nothing was worried about the man who had everything.

Something broke inside him—not the careful, controlled breakdowns he’d had before, the ones his therapist helped him manage. This was raw, primal. He pressed his hands against his eyes until he saw stars, but the tears came anyway.

“Jarvis,” he choked out, “what do normal people do when they feel like this?”

“Based on available data, common coping mechanisms include talking to friends, engaging in physical exercise, or seeking comfort in familiar places.”

“Familiar places?” Patrick echoed, his mind racing. “What’s familiar to normal people?”

“Statistical analysis shows that in times of emotional distress, many individuals seek out casual dining establishments, particularly fast food.”

Patrick wiped his eyes, a plan forming in his mind. “Show me the nearest fast food restaurant.”

“Calculating route,” Jarvis replied. “The nearest establishment is a McDonald’s approximately 3.2 miles away.”

Patrick stood up, legs shaky. The hoodie still hung on his frame, making him look smaller, more human somehow. He walked to the garage, bypassing his collection of luxury cars. In the corner, under a dust cover, sat an old Honda Civic—another of Xavier’s projects. The key was still in the ignition.

As he backed out of the garage, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. With his messy hair, worn clothes, and three-day stubble, he looked normal—anonymous, free. The guard at the gate did a double take but said nothing as he waved the car through.

For the first time in years, Patrick Mahomes drove away from his mansion without a security detail, without a destination, without a plan. The sun had fully set now, leaving the city bathed in artificial light. Neon signs buzzed and flickered, advertising cheap food and cheaper dreams—normal people’s dreams.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in he couldn’t remember how long. Up ahead, golden arches glowed against the dark sky like a beacon. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet. First, he needed to remember how to be nobody, how to be real.

The city stretched out before him, full of possibilities and dangers, and all the messy, beautiful things he’d forgotten existed outside his carefully controlled world. For tonight, he wasn’t Patrick Mahomes, the richest man in the world; he was just hungry.

The McDonald’s parking lot was half full, a mix of tired-looking sedans, delivery bikes, and a few work trucks caked with construction dust. Patrick pulled the Honda into a spot far from the entrance, next to a minivan with a child’s handprint on the window. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Just go in, he whispered to himself. Just be normal.

Through the restaurant’s windows, he could see life unfolding in bright fluorescent detail. A teenage couple shared fries, laughing at something on their phones. An elderly man sat alone, methodically working through a fish sandwich. Three construction workers hunched over coffee cups, their reflective vests glowing under the harsh lights.

Patrick stepped inside, the noise hitting him first. Conversations in English and Spanish blended with the beeping of fryers, the hiss of soda machines, and the constant chatter of drive-through headsets. The floor was slightly sticky under his feet. He joined the line, trying to look natural.

In front of him, two college students debated how to split their order to maximize the dollar menu. “If we both get McChickens and share a large fry—”

“Yeah, but the app has a deal on nuggets,” his friend argued.

Behind him, an older woman talked on her phone in rapid-fire Spanish while her young son tugged at her sleeve. “Mama, I’m hungry!”

Patrick felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. This was the life he had once known, the life he had left behind in pursuit of fame and fortune. The line shuffled forward, and he stepped up to the counter, his palms sweaty.

“Welcome to McDonald’s! What can I get you?” a young woman asked, her voice cheerful.

Patrick opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The menu board above blazed with options, prices, and calories—too much information, too many choices. He felt the eyes of the people behind him, the pressure mounting.

“Sir?” the cashier prompted, her smile faltering slightly.

“Uh, just a hamburger,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Just the sandwich?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, just the sandwich,” he replied, trying to sound casual