Tory followed her anyway.
She always did.
The place Andrea chose had no name. No memory. Just wind through broken steel and the sound of water far below.
"You knew I'd come," Tory said, stepping into view.
Andrea didn't turn.
"I counted on it."
Tory laughed — tired now, frayed at the edges. "You could've ended this a hundred ways."
Andrea finally faced her.
"This is the only one that lasts."
The fight didn't look like rage.
It looked like inevitability.
No speeches. No theatrics. Just two people who had already buried everyone else they loved.
When it was over, Tory lay still.
Andrea stood there a long time.
No triumph.
No relief.
Just the absence of noise.
"I'm sorry," Andrea said — not to Tory, but to the past itself.
Then she walked away.
Andrea Johnson vanished three days later.
No sightings.
No leaks.
No photographs.
Interpol closed the file quietly.
News cycles moved on.
There was no body made public.
No place to point at and say here.
Only one thing was found.
A jacket, folded neatly near the edge of a place with water and sky and nothing watching.
Inside the pocket, a note — not a confession, not an apology.
Just a sentence.
I stayed as long as I could.
Authorities called it an accident.
Fans called it a lie.
Enemies called it justice.
The truth stayed where Andrea left it.
Tom Kaulitz heard the news in a hotel room.
He didn't cry.
He sat on the floor for hours, replaying every moment he'd tried to stop her by force instead of understanding.
Bill stopped believing in saviors.
Georg stopped talking about "control."
Gustav kept one empty chair on stage.
LEGEND
People still argue about Andrea Johnson.
Some say she was a monster.
Some say she was a victim.
Some say she never existed at all.
But the truth — the real one — is quieter.
Andrea didn't lose.
She didn't win.
She ended the war the only way she knew how.
By removing herself from it.
And the world, for better or worse, kept breathing.