Orin paces the hall behind Dock Eleven’s skeletal main stage, black leather jacket slung carelessly over his plaid shirt, fingers trembling in concert with the bass bleeding through steel. He checks his cracked phone—three missed calls from Jossan. He feels the old anxiety coil in his stomach; tonight’s air is charged, and he knows something’s about to break.

Jossan is waiting in the office, perched on the edge of the battered desk, suit jacket tight across his hunched shoulders. The raw panic on his face dulls his boyish good looks; his tie is askew, his hair a dark, nervous mess. Orin sees the confession forming before the words leave Jossan’s mouth.

“I lied,” Jossan blurts, voice cracking. “I’m—I was sent. My father’s the inspector. They want Dock Eleven shut down. Please—Orin, I’m in too deep. You have to help me.”

Orin’s pulse hammers; betrayal and pity war on his restless features. He rakes a hand through wild blond hair, jaw sharp with tension. “You’re telling me now? After everything?” His voice is raw, leaning in, almost dangerous.

Jossan’s eyes are wet; his breath hiccups. “I have nothing left,” he whispers. “If Calais finds out—”

“She already does,” Calais interrupts, cool and formidably elegant in a tailored black blouse, her gaze glacial as she enters. She glides to the desk, her posture a threat. “I warned you, Jossan. Dock Eleven doesn’t forgive traitors.”

Flinching, Jossan slides off the desk, shrinking. Orin steps between them, voice brittle. “He’s just scared, Calais. He’s not the enemy.” His hands tremble as he fists them in his pockets, anger and protectiveness bleeding together.

Calais’s lips thin—nail-polished hand lifts, dismissive. “You’re getting too soft, Orin.” But her eyes flicker, betraying the pain behind her control.

Across the docks, Evaleine’s mural is blooming on concrete: bold lines, electric colors—and at its center, a secret exploded in paint. Calais’s silhouette, entangled with a shadow most will recognize if they look close enough. She spots it, and the calm she wears cracks—her face flushing with rage, eyes darting wild.

Evaleine stands beside Vespera, a smudge of cobalt on her cheeks, looking defiant and unrepentant. Vespera, all sharp cheekbones and slouched, oversized jacket, raises her camera between them and Orin. For a moment, she looks almost gentle.

In the gathering dark, Orin and Evaleine slip into the back room, laughter sharp-edged and desperate. She pulls him by the belt loops, eyes luminous, lips smudged pink. They crash together, seeking distraction—Evaleine’s hands tangled in his shirt, Orin’s mouth finding her collarbone. They burn, reckless, bodies pressed hard, movements hungry—her leg hooked around his waist, his fingers stealing under her shirt, both of them chasing oblivion in skin and friction. When they pull apart, breathless, they’re both a little more lost.

Vespera finds them first. Her jaw clenches, eyes glassy, camera swinging from trembling fingers. “Was it just sex?” she asks Orin, barely above a whisper.

He falters—guilt flooding his throat, unable to meet her gaze. “Ves, I—”

She steps closer. Hands shaking, she wraps her arms around herself, bites her lip hard enough to bleed. “I want all of you,” she admits, voice breaking, eyes pleading. “Not just the nights.”

He recoils, panic shadowing his face. “I can’t,” he chokes, retreating—Vespera’s heartbreak vivid and unmissable.

Then Calais appears in the doorway, features contorted with fury and something rawer. She looks from Vespera to Orin, her whole body rigid, knuckles white. For a moment, it seems as if she might strike him—or her. Instead, she simply turns and slams the door, glass shaking in the old frame.

Later, alone in the office, Calais’s reflection splinters across the dusty mirror. She stares at herself, breathing ragged, eyes rimmed red, then drives her fist through the glass. Blood beads, wild and bright, on her knuckles. The sound echoes through the empty hall.

Outside, police sirens wail in the distance, growing closer.

To be continued...