Lera stands at the edge of the loft roof, hair swept into a careless knot, silk dress still wrinkled from the night’s unraveling. Her high heels dangle from one hand, bare feet pressed to cold concrete. She can feel her pulse in her throat, an aftershock from every decision that’s crashed through her defenses. Ithran appears in her periphery, dark curls falling in his eyes, denim jacket tugged on over a faded black shirt—he looks exhausted, alive, and dangerous. His camera hangs limp around his neck, not a shield tonight but a confession. They don’t speak at first. He leans against the railing, close but not touching, breath hitching as he studies her profile. Lera’s lips part as if to scold or seduce, but all she manages is a weary, whispered, “Don’t make me regret this.”

Ithran’s fingers tremble as he reaches for her hand, tracing a crescent into her wrist with his thumb. “I should have told you the truth. I ran because I ruined my brother’s life, Lera. I took the fall, but it’s mine—you deserve the real version.” His voice is raw, frayed with weeks of guilt and longing, eyes glistening in the half-light. He waits, head tilted, searching for the flicker of disgust or dismissal. Instead, Lera turns toward him fully, mascara smudged, chin lifted in stubborn defiance. She squeezes his hand until her knuckles pale. “We’re all wreckage here,” she murmurs. “That’s why I want you. Not the perfect version—the one who bleeds like I do.”

Below them, faint music drifts up—Rhysant stands by the stairwell, dressed in yesterday’s rumpled suit, tie undone, jaw shadowed with stubble. He glances at the rooftop door, hesitating. Sidelle stands beside him, hair in a messy ponytail, white shirt knotted above her waist. Her gaze is wary, hollowed out by secrets and sleeplessness. Rhysant’s arm brushes Sidelle’s as he passes her a battered envelope, voice low. “The shop’s yours again. Don’t waste it.” She stares at his hand as if it might vanish. “Why help me?” she spits, defiance barely masking hope. Rhysant shrugs, eyes tired but soft. “We all fucked up. Might as well start clean.” Sidelle swallows hard, jaw tight, and for once does not look away.

The four of them gather at the rooftop’s edge—the city humming beneath, sunrise simmering on the horizon. Ithran’s arm slips around Lera’s waist, uncertain at first, tightening as she leans back with a shaky, unguarded laugh. Rhysant lingers beside Sidelle, a safe distance apart, eyes on the skyline, but his hand hovers in hers—a silent olive branch.

Lera closes her eyes as Ithran presses a kiss to her temple, careful, reverent, tasting salt and forgiveness. She lets herself lean in, just enough. For the first time, her posture softens; the old armor slips as she clings to him with trembling fingers. “Don’t disappear on me,” she breathes. Ithran smiles, and for once it’s real, the wolfish edge melted to something broken and true. “Not if you ask me to stay.”

Sidelle stares out at the city, lips parted as if she might apologize—but no words come. Instead, Rhysant’s thumb grazes her knuckles; her eyes snap to his, searching for malice and finding only a battered kind of grace. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t pull away.

Sunrise smears gold across their faces, and for a moment the bruises and bitterness dissolve in the hush. They stand together—touching, aching, not yet whole, but choosing each other anyway. Below, the city rumbles awake. Above, their breaths tangle in the pink-lit space between hope and history. No one dares speak of forever. But as Lera’s hand finds Ithran’s, and Sidelle lets herself breathe beside Rhysant, it’s enough.