Ithran finds Lera on the shadowed fire escape, her bare arms folded against the morning chill despite a sleek black blazer and heels sharp as her temper. Her gaze slices through him, mouth set in a stubborn line, mascara barely smudged from a night that offered no mercy. Ithran hesitates, fingers tightening on the camera strap slung across his chest, every line in his body taut with things unsaid. For a moment, neither of them moves—they’re each waiting for the other to flinch. But it’s Ithran who breaks first, his voice raw.
“It’s not a game, Lera,” he says, quieter than he means. “Not anymore.”

She laughs, brittle as broken glass. “You only say that because you’re losing.” Yet he sees the way her jaw trembles, the way her nail digs into her palm. He steps closer, heart pounding, suddenly all too aware of the way she smells—coffee, sweat, expensive perfume, and something sharp underneath: fear.

He reaches out, knuckles grazing her wrist. “You want to keep fighting, or do you want to actually feel something for once?” It’s more plea than dare. She wrenches free, eyes glossy, but she doesn’t walk away.

Inside, Rhysant’s voice cuts through the quiet, bitter and wounded. He’s leaned against the bar in a rumpled white dress shirt and jeans, sleeves shoved up, anger trembling through his whole body. Sidelle stands before him, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, desperate line that draws attention to the smudged lipstick at the edge of her mouth.
“You think you’re the only one who’s ever been betrayed?” Rhysant snaps, eyes red-rimmed. “Ithran ruined everything, but you—Sidelle, you just made it worse.”

Sidelle tries for a laugh, but it’s cracked. “I gave you a chance and you wasted it.” Her posture is brittle, fingers twisting the silver chain at her throat. She leans in, voice low, dangerous: “You’re not as untouchable as you think. None of us are.”

Upstairs, with a trembling inhale, Lera finally lets the walls drop. “I’m tired, Ithran,” she whispers. “Of holding everything together. Of pretending I don’t want you.” Her breath fans warm against his cheek, and something inside him shatters. He cups her face, thumb tracing the contour of her jaw. She closes her eyes, lashes damp, and lets herself lean in, surrendering the pretense.

Their kiss is frantic—wet, breathless, charged with months of repressed longing. Lera arches into him, blazer slipping from her shoulders, his hands tangling in her hair. For a second, control is meaningless—there’s only skin, heat, bruised mouths, the dizzying rush of finally giving in. She gasps, nails biting his neck, and he groans her name like a confession. In that moment, it’s not about victory—it’s about survival, about wanting and being wanted.

When they finally break apart, both are shaking, foreheads pressed together. “Don’t let me down,” she says, voice so small he almost misses it. He rests his forehead against hers, promises nothing, but laces his fingers through hers anyway.

On the club’s back stairs, Sidelle lingers in the blue light of her phone, mascara streaking pale cheeks. Rejection burns in her voice as she mutters, “Fine, let them have each other.” Her hand trembles as she dials a number, pulse fluttering in her throat. When the line clicks open, her voice is icy: “I have one more secret to trade. Meet me tonight.” Her gaze flickers, unreadable, as she disappears into the dark.

To be continued...