Orin’s hands trembled as he tuned the battered guitar, the dim bulb above making his curls glint gold. His shirt clung, still damp from the earlier downpour, and he caught his own reflection in the scratched window—green eyes ringed with something darker: exhaustion, desire, regret. Down below, the warehouse pulsed with music and Calais’s sharp laughter. Orin could feel the pulse inside his ribs.

Calais swept up the stairs, silk shirt buttoned low, dark slacks hugging her hips, gaze slicing through anyone in her path. She paused in the doorway, lips set in a perfect line, eyes icy and unreadable. “Lost or hiding, Kavellar?” Her voice was all taunt, masking something brittle.

“Depends who’s looking,” Orin said, fingers tightening on the guitar’s neck. He hated how his heartbeat quickened just at her nearness, at the way she leaned in, arms folded, a smirk twisting her mouth.

From the shadows, Vespera watched them—her long coat unbuttoned, camera slung loose around her neck, lips just parted. She snapped a frame—flash flaring across Orin’s knuckles and Calais’s narrow, elegant profile. The air bristled with tension, the kind that vibrates just before something shatters.

Calais leaned in, the scent of vetiver and cigarettes curling between them. “Tell me, Orin, which Raith twin turns your head?” Her words were smooth, but her jaw flexed tight. She moved closer, grazing his hip with her palm, daring him.

“Maybe both,” Orin whispered, letting himself drown in the electricity. For one fractured second, he wanted them both, wanted to tear down every wall.

Calais’s lips crashed into his—heat and fury, tongues clashing, teeth grazing until they both broke for air. Her grip on his waist was bruising. Orin gasped, fingers twisting in her hair, pulling her closer until he tasted the faint copper of blood from her bitten lip. “You think you can break me?” she hissed, breath fevered, and he only pressed harder.

From below, Vespera turned away, shoulders rigid, stung. Her boots whispered over the concrete as she vanished into the darkroom.

Orin’s stare lingered on the empty stairwell, guilt knotting in his chest. Calais caught his hesitation, eyes narrowing, voice dropping to a threat. “Don’t look for her, Orin. Not tonight.” She tugged him closer, defiant, but something in her gaze flickered—an old hurt, quickly masked.

Later, in the labyrinth of the warehouse, Vespera’s laughter echoed as she led Orin through the maze of negatives and chemical scents. She wore nothing but an oversized shirt, collarbone exposed, her hair a wild black halo. She kissed him with a hunger that surprised them both—hands urgent, lips needy, the world shrinking to just sweat and skin and wanting to forget. They crashed together on the cool metal of the developing table, her thighs bracketing his hips, the only light a red bulb bathing them in fevered shadows.

Orin let himself get lost in her. Vespera was all sharp edges and soft glances, breaking open something raw inside him. He couldn’t help but see Calais’s scowl, Calais’s mouth, even as he buried himself in Vespera’s gasps and restless hands. Beneath it all, guilt seeped through, bitter as ash.

After, tangled in darkness, Vespera’s fingers grazed Orin’s chest, tentative, almost shy. “Stay,” she breathed, voice hitching. He almost said yes, almost gave her an answer—but the hollow ache in his gut left the words unsaid.

Downstairs, Calais prowled the bar, face emotionless, eyes blazing. She found Jossan—rumpled, desperate, tie yanked half-loose. Without a word, she seized his wrist, yanked him into her office. Doors slammed. Their voices rose: accusation, demand, need. The tension snapped; Jossan’s hands shook as Calais pinned him against the file cabinets, her mouth devouring his, movements forceful, bordering on cruel. Her rings left half-moons on his skin. Jossan moaned, yielding, terrified at how much he wanted this.

Afterward, Jossan lay breathless, shirt wrinkled, eyes shining with tears he’d never admit to. Calais turned away, face streaked with red from a fresh cut on her lower lip, suddenly looking very, very tired.

Hours later, while Evaleine swept confetti and cigarette butts, she caught Orin off-guard. Her paint-stained hoodie slipped off one shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. She pressed him into the cleaning closet with a laugh, hands pulling him down by the collar. Their kiss was hungry, swift—her body curving into his, teeth grazing his jaw—before she pulled away, lips swollen, breathing hard. “You taste like trouble.”

Orin staggered back, mind whirling as Evaleine vanished out the door, leaving him clutching at his own confusion. Every connection now sparked with guilt and reckless longing. He was breaking all of them, and himself, apart.

In the early morning haze, Orin found a photograph on his pillow—old, edges torn, blood smeared across the surface. Calais and Vespera as children, arms tangled around each other, eyes wide and hopeful, split straight down the center. Orin’s breath caught in his throat, a chill crawling down his spine.

Somewhere, a glass shattered. Voices rose in fury downstairs. He realized, with dread, that everything was about to fall apart.

To be continued...