Dawn breaks cold and restless, the rooftop slick with last night’s rain. Vessa is first to arrive, jaw tense, fingers trembling as she lights a cigarette. Her red dress—creased from sleep and wild anger—clings to her, the strap sliding off one bronzed shoulder. She paces, eyes darting to the door, back to the edge. The city below is a smear of grey and gold. She crushes the cigarette beneath her heel, teeth grazing her lip as if she’s biting back everything she still can’t say.

Cyran steps out next, hoodie zipped up tight, fists jammed in the pockets of his faded jeans. Shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes. He moves slow, haunted, but his gaze finds Vessa instantly. He drinks in the tilt of her chin, the way she avoids his stare—his insides twist with longing and dread. He wants to speak, to run to her, but his own shame glues his feet to the puddled cement.

Rhion follows, every line of her suit calculated—pressed navy jacket, tailored pants that don’t dare wrinkle. Her hair is scraped into a knot so tight it sharpens her features to a blade. She doesn’t look at the others, only the horizon, arms crossed, nails digging into her biceps. A muscle jumps in her jaw when Gaven barrels in after her, wild-eyed, clutching his phone like a grenade.

Naela appears, ice in her stride, phone already ringing, heels clicking until she halts at the heart of the circle. Kas slips through the stairwell door behind her, quieter, and suddenly everyone is here except the truth.

For a moment, no one moves. Cyran’s heartbeat is thunder in his ears. Then a ping: Kas’s phone vibrates, loud and cruel in the hush. All eyes swing to them. Kas’s mouth works as if shaping confession before words finally stumble out. “It was me,” they rasp, voice small. “I sent the messages. I just—I needed someone to see what was really happening.” Their hands shake, shoulders hunched, eyes shining with something like hope and terror.

Vessa’s breath hitches. “Why would you—?” Her voice cracks, raw as wounds. Kas’s gaze finds hers and doesn’t look away. “Because if I couldn’t fix what I saw, I wasn’t going to let it destroy me quietly.” Silence gathers. Gaven’s lip curls in disbelief, but Rhion’s face is carved from stone, unreadable.

Naela steps forward, head high, her tone surgical. “This ends now. We all have something to lose. So we’re done with secrets—unless anyone else wants to be devoured in public.” She sweeps the group with her glare. The agency’s future hangs in the tremor of her voice.

Cyran’s chest tightens; sweat beads on his brow. He sees Vessa watching him, waiting, maybe hoping, maybe despising. “It’s my turn,” he whispers, his voice shaking but fierce. “I lied. I covered up threats, I let fear run my life. But I’m done.” He faces Vessa directly. “I love you. I forgive you. And I need you to forgive me, too.” For a heartbeat, time hangs—she sways as if his words might tip her over the edge.

Rhion, voice breaking, steps back from the circle. “I rigged campaigns. I sabotaged you all—and it wasn’t enough. I thought I could control everything, but I never felt anything real until now.” Her breath catches. “I’m sorry,” she says, desperation seeping through the cracks.

Gaven spits out a cruel laugh, shoving his phone at Naela. “Did you know about this? All this time?” Naela just stares him down, silent and unmovable, and he deflates, anger draining into nothing.

The circle shatters. Rhion pulls off her blazer, tears pearling at the edge of her lashes. She looks impossibly small.

Vessa turns to Cyran. He reaches for her hand, gentle, uncertain, and when their fingers meet, it’s as if years fall away. She swallows hard, mascara smudged from rain and tears, and presses her palm to his chest. “I can’t promise forever,” she whispers, voice barely a tremor, “but I can promise right now.” He nods, eyes shining.

The others drift away—Rhion, breaking apart in the cold, is the first to go, her footsteps sharp and lonely. Kas trails after, glancing back once, face bathed in hope and remorse. Naela lingers last, her silhouette fierce as the sun claws over the skyline.

Vessa and Cyran are finally alone. He cups her jaw, fingers trembling; she arches into his touch. Their kisses taste of salt—tears and sweat and the impossible relief of survival. They move to the rooftop’s farthest corner, clothes falling away in urgent silence. His mouth finds the hollow of her throat; her hands tangle in his hair. Their bodies press together—skin, heat, the raw edge of everything they almost lost.

She gasps his name as he sinks into her, clinging. He buries his face in her neck, the world shrinking to the shock of closeness, the shuddering breaths they share. There’s nothing gentle in the way they take each other—bruising, desperate, fingers digging, limbs tangled. But when they finally still, spent and shivering, it’s as if something inside both of them is remade.

He brushes hair from her face, forehead pressed to hers. “We survived it,” he breathes. She smiles, bruised and new. Light spills over them, warm and uncertain, as somewhere below, the agency stirs to life—or ruin.

Vessa nestles against Cyran’s bare chest, eyes drifting closed as the city awakens. His arm curls around her, fierce and careful, and for one impossible moment, neither of them thinks about what comes next. The future is an open wound, but in the hush between heartbeats, they are honest, and that’s enough.