Jossan leans against the cold brick wall just outside Calais’s office, his wiry frame tenser than usual, blazer sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows. Shadows crawl under his eyes. He glances over one shoulder—hoping, dreading—before pushing the door. Calais waits inside, immaculate as always: black velvet shirt buttoned nearly to the throat, hair slicked to one side, lips pressed flat. Her eyes pin him like a specimen. Jossan stammers, voice trembling, “I know you think I’m a rat.” He’s trying to grin, but it falters. Calais only smiles, slow and cruel.

She circles him, a cat toying with an anxious bird. Her fingers graze his shoulder, straightening the mess of his jacket. “You’re not clever enough to lie to me, Jossan.” He breaks, lips parted, jaw tight. Calais’s voice falls to a whisper: “What will you give me to make this all go away?” He meets her gaze, green eyes desperate. “Anything,” he says, barely more than a breath. Calais moves in close—so close he feels her exhale brush his cheek—then lets him go with a dismissive snap of her fingers. “We’ll see,” she murmurs, turning away, leaving him stinging with humiliation and relief.

Jossan’s hands shake as he stumbles down the stairwell. He nearly collides with Vespera, who stands against the banister in a battered denim vest, her lips painted the blue-black of midnight. Her expression is unreadable, but her movements are precise—she steps aside with feline grace, arm brushing his. “Don’t let her eat you alive,” she whispers, so quietly he isn’t sure he heard her at all. The moment hangs; then Jossan flees, feet pounding the iron steps.

On the lower floor, Evaleine paces, paint-stained jeans torn at the knees. She chews her thumbnail, scanning for Vespera. When Vespera finally descends, Evaleine steps into her path, eyes brittle with longing. “You said you wouldn’t disappear.” Vespera studies her, face unreadable, then cups Evaleine’s cheek with surprising gentleness. “Would you run with me if I did?” Evaleine blinks, hesitation flickering—then leans in, a shiver running through her as Vespera’s thumb trails her jaw. But Vespera pulls away, lips twitching, and threads past her, leaving Evaleine burning, breath caught in her throat.

Upstairs, Calais paces her office, anger sharp in her jaw, hands clenched so tight the knuckles bleach white. She stares at her reflection in the shattered mirror, sees her own eyes—Vespera’s eyes—staring back. The past week ghosts across her features: Orin’s laugh, Jossan’s fear, Vespera’s touch on Evaleine’s hips. Grief wars with fury; she slams her fist into the desk, sending glass shards tumbling to the floor.

The warehouse hums with tension. Vespera slips into the darkroom, the light casting shadows across her pale arms, freckles exposed beneath a loose tank top. Her camera dangles loose at her wrist. Calais appears in the doorway, posture rigid, suit immaculate but eyes wild. They face each other, twins in every line of cheek and jaw, but divided by years of ache and accusation. “You always have to take what’s mine,” Calais spits, voice rough with old wounds. Vespera’s expression hardens, voice flat: “I never wanted what was yours—just what you wouldn’t let yourself have.” Their words spark, the air between them sharp with broken history.

Calais closes distance with a sudden, desperate intensity. Vespera meets her halfway, anger crackling in pinched brows and clenched fists. For a heartbeat, it seems they might come to blows—Vespera’s jaw tenses, Calais’s hands flex at her sides. Then, as if pulled by gravity, Vespera’s anger buckles. Her eyes brim with tears. “I just wanted—” her voice cracks. Calais, rigid a moment longer, lets out a shuddering breath, and suddenly they’re holding each other, clutching so hard it hurts, sobs hidden in the crooks of each other’s neck. Their embrace is brutal, desperate, everything left unsaid pouring out in the shake of their bodies.

Downstairs, Evaleine kicks a crate, hands shoved deep in her pockets, trying not to care who anyone else chooses. Jossan drifts by her, lost, eyes rimmed red. “Nothing here lasts, does it?” he mutters. Evaleine doesn’t answer—she’s staring up at the catwalk, where Orin’s battered guitar lies abandoned, strap twisting in the breeze.

No one has seen Orin all night.

Later, when the warehouse has quieted, Calais moves through the silence, black combat boots echoing on the wood. At the office door, she finds a USB drive taped to the handle—a single word scrawled on the back: “Listen.” She plugs it into her laptop. Orin’s voice, rough and beautiful, floods the darkness: “For Calais. For every truth I was too scared to sing.”

His song, raw and shattering, confesses everything: wanting, cowardice, hope. Calais’s eyes burn. The scene holds—her shaking hands, Vespera’s swollen eyes in the next room, Evaleine curled on the stairs, Jossan watching the door—each of them cracked open by loss and longing.

A sudden crash at the loading gates—police lights strobe through the window, blue and frantic.

To be continued...