The café became their meeting ground, a quiet arena where three lives kept colliding without ever choosing to. Arin came for Rimora—for the way her presence steadied something broken inside him, for the strength she carried so quietly that it felt sacred. Lbow came because Arin did, though the reason shifted each time he crossed the threshold. And every time he entered, the air changed. What had been warmth around Rimora hardened into something colder, sharper. She did not hide her hatred anymore. It lived in the way her jaw tightened, in the looks she gave him that sliced deeper than words, in the silences she wielded like weapons. Arin stood between them without meaning to, refusing to take sides, yet every time Rimora's eyes darkened at the sight of Lbow, his chest twisted. He knew she was not wrong. Lbow's family had prospered on suffering. And yet, Lbow was still the boy who had once shared laughter with him, the friend forged in earlier ruins. That contradiction tore at Arin relentlessly. And in that tension, the first true cracks of the triangle began to show.
Lbow was not blind. He noticed the way Rimora watched Arin when she thought no one was looking—the slight softening of her expression, the way her breathing stilled when Arin leaned closer, the unguarded moments she never offered him. Beneath her open contempt, he saw something else growing, something he had never faced before. Jealousy slid into him like poison, unfamiliar and humiliating. His life had been shaped by certainty—by the knowledge that if he wanted something badly enough, it would eventually be his. But here, in this worn café in City 2, something was slipping from his control. Arin's loyalty was no longer unquestioned. There was a girl now. Scarred, furious, unyielding—and she mattered. The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He laughed louder, smiled wider, played his role with greater arrogance, but inside him, envy took root, thorny and persistent.
For Rimora, sensing Lbow's unease felt like a small, dangerous victory. Part of her wanted him to feel it—to understand, even briefly, what it meant to be denied, to be powerless. Yet fear walked hand in hand with that satisfaction. Men like Lbow were not accustomed to losing. They did not retreat quietly. She felt it in the way his gaze lingered longer now, sharper, more searching, as though he were looking for a weakness to exploit. Sometimes she wondered if her defiance only fed his obsession, if hatred was not enough to push him away. And in those moments, Arin became her unspoken refuge. He stood between them without realizing it, not as a warrior, but as a presence—steady, grounding, impossible to ignore.
Arin remained unaware of the storm building around him. To him, Rimora was a mirror—someone who understood grief without explanation, someone whose resolve reflected his own. And Lbow was still his friend, still the one who had offered help when the world had turned its back. Arin believed the three of them were bound by circumstance, not by conflict. He did not see how every step he took closer to Rimora widened the distance between himself and Lbow. He did not recognize the anger in Rimora's eyes when she looked at Lbow, nor the bitterness hidden behind Lbow's laughter when he watched her. He walked forward carrying hope, unaware that the ground beneath him was already fracturing.
The tension finally broke one evening. It happened over something small—Lbow offering to pay, a casual gesture born of habit and privilege. Rimora snapped before restraint could catch her. Her words cut through the café like shattered glass. She accused him openly, of believing money could erase blood, of thinking wealth could wash away what his family had done. The room fell into a stunned silence. Arin froze, caught between two opposing fires. Lbow's expression tightened, though he forced a laugh that rang hollow even to himself. Arin reached out, his hand finding Rimora's shoulder, whispering her name in warning, but she did not soften. Her fury had been caged too long. Lbow replied with practiced confidence, denying responsibility, insisting the sins were not his. Yet even as he spoke, the weight of inherited guilt pressed down on him, unspoken but undeniable.
That night, Rimora cried alone. She despised the tears, despised the way her heart betrayed her. She hated that Arin's touch had calmed her, that his voice had pulled her back from the edge. She hated that something fragile and dangerous was growing where only anger should have lived. She swore to herself that love would never become her weakness, that no man would define her path. And yet, in the quiet of her room, his name slipped from her lips like a confession she could never afford to make.
Lbow, meanwhile, sat surrounded by luxury that had never felt so hollow. He stared at his reflection, replaying Rimora's words, her fury, her refusal to see him as anything but the enemy. It enraged him—and drew him in all the same. For the first time in his life, something was out of reach, and denial sharpened his desire. He wanted to prove himself, to separate his identity from his father's shadow, to be seen as more than privilege. And beneath all of it lay a darker need—to win. Against her hatred. Against Arin's quiet gravity. Against the fear of becoming irrelevant.
Arin, unaware of the forces converging around him, drifted deeper into the triangle. He did not know his silence was being mistaken for love, nor that his loyalty was hardening into rivalry. He only knew that the world outside was cruel, and that inside this fragile bond, something still felt worth saving. But triangles never hold. One edge always cuts, one corner always collapses. And though none of them could yet see it clearly, the fractures were already set. All that remained was the spark.