Kas steps into Lumeira with rain still clinging to their collar, carrying a battered messenger bag and a look that suggests a hundred unspoken questions. Their eyes are wide, observant, and flick from face to face—Gaven’s forced grin, Rhion’s steel posture, Naela’s prowling silhouette—catching every brittle edge in the tension that hums through the open office. They linger briefly at the glass wall, hands folded awkwardly, before slipping into the shadows, blending in as if they’d always been part of the agency’s pulse.

Rhion, perfectly composed in a charcoal suit that exaggerates her sharpness, senses Kas watching her. She gives nothing away—not the twitch in her jaw, nor the flash of suspicion behind her eyes. Instead, she turns to Gaven, who’s lounging with studied nonchalance at his standing desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “You have something for me?” she asks, voice low and crisp. Gaven’s eyes spark with mischief and something darker. He leans in, close enough she catches the faint scent of aftershave and desperation.

“It’s about Cyran,” Gaven whispers, sliding his phone across the table. “I heard things. Saw receipts. He’s not as innocent as everyone thinks.” He watches her read, satisfaction curling his lips as her expression flickers—barely—into interest. Rhion’s posture doesn’t change, but her grip on the phone tightens. “What do you want, Gaven?” she asks quietly, and his smile slips, just for a second, betraying the bitterness he tries so hard to mask.

Meanwhile, Vessa stands at the rooftop edge, hair darkened by the mist, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her jacket, thrown hastily over slinky black studio clothes, does little to protect her from the chill. Cyran finds her there, his own hands shoved deep into the pockets of a thrifted coat, shoulders hunched, face pale and drawn from sleepless nights. He approaches slowly, every step careful, uncertain. “You didn’t show up to the campaign meeting,” he says softly, voice straining to be gentle.

She doesn’t look at him. “Couldn’t face them. Couldn’t face myself.” There’s a tremor in her words—of fear, of shame, of the weight she’s carried alone. Her fingers dig into her arms. Cyran hesitates, then reaches out, curling his hand around her wrist, thumb brushing her pulse. “Vessa, talk to me. Please.” His voice shudders, honest, breaking through his usual reserve.

Rain spatters harder, washing the city in blurred neon below them. “I lied to you. About everything. My debt, the blackmail… all of it. My ex ruined me, then this client—I thought I could handle it but I’m so fucking lost,” she confesses, her face crumpling. Mascara streaks down her cheeks, raw and unguarded. Cyran’s heartbreak is visible—eyes wide, brow furrowed, the muscles in his jaw working as he fights to keep his own pain at bay.

He steps closer, tugging her into his chest. Vessa resists, fists pressed against his sternum, but then melts, letting herself sob against him. Cyran buries his face in her hair, breathing her in, holding her as if he’s afraid she’ll slip through his arms, as if holding her could make the threats and debts vanish. “You’re not alone, not anymore,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, kissing her temple, cheek, the curve of her jaw—each touch heavy with need and forgiveness and hunger.

Vessa tips her head back, searching his eyes, finding only ache and fierce loyalty. Her hands lift to tangle in his hair, lips desperate against his. The kiss is frantic, breathless, teeth clashing, rainwater mingling with tears. They move as one, pressed against the rooftop ledge, fingers fumbling at buttons and zippers, urgency overwhelming sense. Cyran’s hands slide beneath her shirt, finding silk skin, trembling with need. She gasps as his mouth trails over her throat—exposed, vulnerable, starving for comfort.

He pulls her closer, desperate to erase her pain with touch. She lets him, arching into his hands, biting back a sob as their bodies meet, heat blooming between them despite the chill. He’s careful, reverent even in his urgency, murmuring her name over and over, as if it’s the only word he trusts. She clings to him, nails digging into his back, every motion a plea for solace and something like absolution.

They come undone together, breath mingling, hearts pounding, bodies slick with rain. When it’s over, they collapse against each other, chests heaving. Cyran cradles her face, thumbs brushing away wet streaks, whispering broken promises—of safety, of never letting go.

Below them, city lights flicker. Above, the rain eases, leaving only the sound of their ragged breathing. For a moment it feels like forgiveness, like hope.

And then Vessa’s phone vibrates in her jacket pocket—a new message with a photo of them, locked together on the rooftop, timestamped and anonymous. She looks at Cyran, terror blooming in her eyes. He stares back, realization dawning—their most intimate moment is no longer theirs alone.

To be continued...