Lera sits hunched on the edge of a velvet bench, hands locked tight in her lap, fingertips blanched. Her tailored blazer—cream silk, sharp at the shoulders—does nothing against the invisible weight pressing at her chest. In the dim wine-bar hush, gossip coils around her name, every low laugh a needle. Her phone trembles with new messages, the words sharp, all teeth: We know what you did. She swallows hard, eyes darting to the polished glass, catching her own cracked reflection.

A door swings, harsh light spilling over the floor. Rhysant enters, suit rumpled, shirt collar open, dark hair mussed like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times. His jaw’s tight, eyes rimmed with sleepless fury. The foreclosure notice in his hand—edge crumpled, ink smudged—dangles like an accusation. He doesn’t look at her, just drops onto the bench beside her, body heavy as grief.

“News travels fast,” he says, voice ragged.

Lera’s lips twitch, a brittle almost-smile. She won’t let him see her buckle. “Only when it’s ugly.” She won’t look at him, not yet. The memory of her ruined affair—stolen moments with a married client, every secret now laid bare—skitters in her chest, nausea rising.

In the silence, her hand slides beside his. Barely brushing, then lingering. His knuckles are cold to the touch.

Sidelle paces the alley behind the coffee shop, red leather skirt riding high, smoky liner smudged at the corner of one defiant eye. Her texts go unanswered; the group chat has turned on her, every message a digital excommunication. She shoves her phone into her pocket, breathing in the angry dusk, fingertips shaking. She let herself believe vengeance felt like justice. Now, her shadow stretches long and alone.

Inside, Ithran stands beneath flickering neon, the lens hanging from his neck rattling with every tremor in his hands. Shirt untucked, jeans rumpled, jaw rough with stubble, he looks less like the city’s most fearless photographer and more like a ghost. When he tries to call Lera, her voicemail is full. He types, erases, types again. I’m sorry. Deletes it. Let me in. Deletes. He wants to say I need you, but pride chokes the words in his throat.

With every breath, his freedom tastes like ash.

Back inside the bar, Lera looks at Rhysant: eyes wet, lips parted in unshed apology. Their pain radiates between them, familiar as a scar. His voice slips soft, wrecked: “All I ever wanted was a chance.” She wants to laugh, to spit, to rage—but she just reaches for him, fingers twisting in his shirt. He pulls her close, lips crashing against hers, the kiss fierce, missing tenderness, tasting of salt and shame.

Her blazer falls away, his hands greedy, movements frantic. They strip each other down to skin and ache, clinging as if touch alone can erase the devastation. She lets him see her unmasked—tear-streaked, trembling, undone.

Their bodies tangle in desperate rhythm, breath mingling with broken moans. It isn’t love, not forgiveness—just the solace of another ruined soul pressed close. When she finally pulls away, the emptiness yawns even wider.

Sidelle—on the curb, mascara streaked, legs drawn up, voice raw—searches for someone, anyone, willing to listen. Each number in her phone blinks with accusation. She tries Rhysant once, twice. No answer. She throws the phone, letting the crack split it like a warning: You did this to yourself.

Later, Ithran stands on the rooftop—shirt open to the biting wind, camera dangling. The city sprawls beneath him, lights glittering and indifferent. He lifts the camera, lens shaking, eyes wet. For a long moment, he contemplates that single step—forward, into nothing, away from every bruise and lie and longing he’s failed to outrun.

He lowers the camera, jaw set. One last message lights up his phone: If you want to disappear, no one will stop you. Unsigned.

His finger hovers over the reply.

To be continued…