"It's my life… it's now or never…"

He was thirty-four. A mid-level UI designer for a fintech startup. His life was Jira tickets, sprint planning, and the gentle erosion of a soul he’d once sworn was made of electric guitar riffs. He hadn't listened to Bon Jovi since high school. He’d dismissed them as corporate rock, dad-rock, the opposite of the cool, minimalist indie stuff he curated on his playlists now.

The chorus hit.

That night, he didn't sleep. He ripped the 320kbps file to a USB stick, got in his car—a sensible hybrid now—and drove. No destination. Just the old highway past the reservoir. The song on repeat. By the third loop, he was crying. Not sad tears. Angry ones. Somewhere between the second verse and the guitar solo, he had become a stranger to himself.

"It's my life," Leo said. And he meant it. Not as a lyric. As a fact.