Rain spatters in frantic bursts against the campaign office windows, an electric pulse in the feverish quiet. Callen stands before the glass wall, his charcoal suit wrinkled, tie loose, jaw set into a mask of defiance brushed with exhaustion. Digital headlines flicker from his phone—his secrets blazing for the world, words like “fraud” and “cover-up” sinking in with each notification. He runs a trembling hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled; the mask threatens to break.

He feels Rysa’s approach before he hears her heels—a subtle tremor in the air, familiar and electric. She’s in a severe black dress, simple yet sharp, the sleeves hitched up as if she’s bracing for a fight. Her eyes, rimmed in tired shadow, fix on him with icy calm but her mouth tightens as if holding in every unsaid word. He opens his mouth, apology trembling on his tongue, and she raises a hand, silencing him.

“You could have told me,” Rysa says, voice low, too steady. There’s no safety left in honesty, no room for softness. Her composure is a discipline; her fingers clench white around the folder she’s been ordered to deliver—his forced resignation. He wants to reach for her, but shame pins him in place.

He takes the folder, their hands brushing—heat, regret, memory. Callen’s voice cracks, stripped of the bravado he wears for everyone but her. “I wanted to protect you. I thought—” He falters, seeing the pain flicker across her face, her eyes refusing to shine.

“Don’t.” She blinks hard, lashes trembling. “This isn’t about me. Not anymore.” The lie aches in her throat. She can’t meet his gaze, shoulders hunched, as if she might fold in on herself if he keeps looking at her that way—like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Across the city, Odessa’s world cracks. She’s in a stark hotel room, packing furiously, her blonde hair undone and wild, lips split from biting back fear. Her phone blinks with threats from her rivals, and the echo of her last confrontation with Rysa burns like acid: I wanted something real, she’d whispered, eyes finally wet as she pulled Rysa into a bruising, desperate kiss—one that tasted of endings.

Rysa can’t shake it—Odessa’s confession presses in as she stands before the cameras, cool and professional, reading the statement that crushes Callen. “Effective immediately, Mr. Lysford has stepped down.” Her voice doesn’t break but her fingers tremble behind the podium.

When the crowd disperses, Rysa locks herself in the bathroom, stares at her reflection. She looks like a stranger—lips bitten, eyes rimmed red. Grief surges, sharp as panic, and she slides to the floor, knuckles pressed tight against her mouth to stifle the sound.

Meanwhile, under the gray hush of evening, Mirelle leans against a rusted fire escape, hair plastered to her cheeks by the rain. She wears Soren’s jacket, oversized, smelling of tobacco and regret. The city hums below, but her world is shrunk to the ache inside her chest. Soren appears—dark curls rain-soaked, eyes stormy, vulnerability raw on his face. He doesn’t try to smile; there’s nothing left but truth.

“It was all a lie,” Mirelle whispers, voice shredded. Soren steps closer, hands gentle, as if she might flinch from his touch. “Not all of it,” he pleads, fingertips trailing her jaw, apology laced with longing. For a moment, she lets him in—mouth finding his, lost in the rain, a kiss more sorrow than hope. Hands clutch, bodies ache together, desperation welded to forgiveness, their union an elegy for all they couldn’t be. But when dawn threatens, Mirelle pulls away, hollow-eyed. “I can’t do this,” she says, heartbreak soft but final. Soren bows his head, tears hidden by the rain.

Hours later, the campaign office stands empty, all slick glass and ghost-light, except for Callen and Rysa. He’s perched on the desk, tie gone, shirt open at the neck—broken in every way he swore he’d never be. She lingers by the door, stubborn control slipping, every breath a battle. Their eyes meet—old wounds, new longing, everything unspoken sparking in the thick silence.

Callen moves first, voice just above a whisper. “We could just…be. No campaign, no pretending. Just us.” But she only shakes her head, smile aching, unshed tears catching light. “We’ve never known how,” she says, voice trembling.

For a moment, they hover—together, apart—until the elevator dings in the distance, slicing the silence. Rysa steps back, breaking the spell, leaving Callen shivering in her absence.

Across the city, Odessa’s cab pulls away from the curb. A shadowy figure steps from an alley, phone pressed to his ear. “It’s done,” he murmurs. The screen goes black.

To be continued...