Orin’s knuckles throb as he hauls himself up the creaking rooftop ladder, the warehouse below a strobing chaos of blue lights and shattered secrets. Sweat glistens along his jaw, shadowed by several days’ regret. His T-shirt clings to his back, ripped at the collar where Calais once grabbed him rough, now an aching memory. He scans the night with frantic eyes, searching for her. Police orders echo from below, boots trampling the mythic dark of Dock Eleven.

Calais appears at the edge of the roof, hair wild, her blazer streaked with blood from a careless swipe at her split knuckles—proof she fought for this place until the end. Her eyes, icy as ever, are glassy with exhaustion. She stands tall, chin up, the precision of her movements a mask over an unraveling heart. Orin can see the tremor in her hands, the bruises flecking her wrists, the ruin of someone who always chose control—until tonight.

He crosses the roof in three strides. “You’re hurt,” he whispers, voice breaking. It’s the first time he’s looked at her without daring her to wound him. The city roar falls away. For a second, Calais lets her eyes fall shut. When she meets his gaze—the chill is gone, replaced by white-hot need and the haunted need to be known. “Stay,” she says, barely loud enough to hear. “Don’t run now.”

Orin cups her face, his fingers trembling. Her lips are split, face streaked with sweat and dust, but he kisses her anyway, fierce and shaking. Calais winds her arms around his neck, clutching him like she’s drowning. When their foreheads press together, every secret lies between them, raw and unspoken.

A door slams below—Jossan, pale and shaking, stands before the flashing lights, shoulders square as he confesses everything to the cops. Evaleine barrels past them, backpack slung low, her paint-stained boots thudding out a rebel rhythm. Vespera is beside her, leather jacket thrown over exposed shoulders, camera dangling, mouth set in a defiant line. Vespera’s eyes find Orin, hungry and hollow, but she doesn’t look back as she grips Evaleine’s hand, their fingers interlaced, the touch electric even in the chaos. “We go together,” Evaleine breathes, and Vespera nods—wordless goodbye shimmering in her glance.

Below, the warehouse cracks in half—sirens, angry shouts, Dock Eleven’s magic stripped to bone and wire. Orin pulls Calais closer as police beams flicker across their figures. She laughs, a threadbare, broken sound. He can’t stop shaking. “I’ll help you,” he says, promise or prayer. Calais’s mask falls away at last; she buries her face in his chest, fists tangled tight in his shirt like she might never let go.

Somewhere below, glass shatters. Jossan disappears behind officers, head held high but jaw quivering, giving them all a chance, the lie finally over. Evaleine and Vespera vanish into dark, their wild silhouettes leaving only the echo of hope and maybe-love.

Orin kisses Calais again, unrestrained and desperate, both of them bruised by longing and loss. Her teeth catch his lower lip, an apology and a dare, and for once, she lets herself collapse into his arms, the world below falling apart as they cling to each other under blood-red police lights.

The warehouse is gone. The secrets are ash. Still, Orin and Calais remain, breathless in each other’s arms, watching the city pulse beyond the rooftop edge—waiting, uncertain, tangled in the promise of a future neither of them can name.