Jossan Pir hesitates outside Dock Eleven’s battered steel doors, shouldering a blue thrift-shop suit jacket two sizes too big, knuckles white on the strap of an overstuffed messenger bag. His face is scrubbed clean, but already there’s sweat at his hairline. Head down, he edges in, hoping to go unnoticed, but a chill of curiosity finds him as soon as he steps onto the cracked concrete floor: Vespera Raith, all in black, camera strap crossing her sharp collarbones, eyes like she could trap light or kill with a look.

She catches him staring, lips curving with a secret. Her walk is slow, deliberate—a measured predator. “You lost, or pretending you aren’t?” she teases, fingers tapping the camera as she circles him. Jossan tries to steady his breathing. “I’m Jossan. The new events manager. Mostly wishing I could disappear right now.” His voice comes out a shade too hopeful and too raw. Vespera’s eyebrow arches, a quiet dare. “That easy, huh? I never trust anyone who wants to vanish,” she breathes, stepping closer, her voice lower. Something about the way she’s looking at him makes him want to confess everything—all the things he’s ashamed of, all at once.

He can’t meet her eyes without flushing. “My family’s broke. I’m only here because I really, really need this shot…” He blurts the words, then hates himself for it. Vespera doesn’t laugh. Instead, she watches him for a beat, expression softening before she brushes a lock of straight, platinum hair behind her ear. “We’ll see what you’re worth, Jossan Pir.” Before he can answer, she’s turned, gliding away, camera swinging, leaving him dizzy—already caught in her orbit.

Near the western wall, Evaleine Voss is perched on a milk crate, jeans ripped and paint-stained, cropped tank barely containing her energy. Her curls are wild, eyes dangerous with challenge as she finishes scrawling crimson letters across the cement. Orin Kavellar snatches her up mid-spray, his grip loose but unmistakable. “You know you’re not supposed to tag with security watching,” he whispers in her ear, his voice playful but warning.

Evaleine spins, pressing her body flush to his, mocking his authority with a smirk. “Then don’t watch me.” Her fingers splay across his chest intentionally. Orin’s lips twitch—he can’t help it, drawn by the reckless way she exists in every moment. “Wanna see what I can get away with?” she dares, her palm sliding lower.

In a flash, Evaleine is darting behind a pile of pallets, tugging Orin after her. Their laughter bounces between shadow and brick until they’re hidden, backs pressed to cold cinderblock. “Dare you,” she murmurs, eyes wide, lips split with a grin that’s as hungry as it is sweet. She leans in—at first teasing, uncertain—her fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, featherlight, until Orin’s breath catches. They fall into a slow, teasing kiss, mouths hot, hands exploring, laughter turning into shivers and then low, wanting sighs. Evaleine tastes like citrus and midnight; Orin’s hands find her hair, tugging, both of them caught in the thrill of being noticed, being wanted.

Across the warehouse, Calais watches it all—narrow-eyed, expression unreadable except for the clench of her jaw. Vespera lingers nearby, camera raised, snapping a quick photo—Evaleine draped over Orin, his shirt rucked up, tension sparking. Jealousy coils tight in Vespera’s chest, sharp and bright, as she turns away, pretending not to care, but her fingers fumble as she adjusts her lens.

Jossan wanders through the chaos, trying to distract himself from his fear by noting everyone’s rules—who’s allowed where, who kisses whom, who can break and who can’t. He forces a smile, approaching Vespera again. “I suck at all this, don’t I?” he murmurs, his laughter brittle. She glances up, sadness flickering just behind her bravado, but she offers a secret: “Everyone’s faking. Some just do it better.” For a moment, vulnerability softens them both.

Evaleine stands, cheeks flushed, breath quick. Orin fixes his shirt and gives her a look that’s half-admiration, half-warning. “You’re trouble.” She grins, teeth sharp. “You love it.” Somewhere in the distance, Calais’s gaze lingers dangerously, reading every move.

Later, in a quiet corner, Jossan stuffs a sealed letter into Calais’s desk—confession, apology, maybe blackmail—he’s not sure anymore. As he turns to leave, a cold draft chills his neck. Calais herself is standing in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glittering in the dim. “Bribery, or honesty?” she asks—her voice knife-edged.

Jossan blanches, heart hammering, throat dry. Before he can answer, Calais’s hand flicks off the light.

Darkness swallows his reply.

To be continued...