The night refused to loosen its grip on Pema's house. It pressed against the walls, heavy and suffocating, settling into every crack like a living thing that refused to leave. Arin sat hunched at the edge of the wooden cot, elbows resting on his knees, his face buried deep in his palms as though he could erase memory itself by hiding from it. His body ached from hours of searching—streets crossed again and again, alleys called into until his voice turned hoarse—but the ache inside him was far worse. Blue had disappeared into the city as though swallowed by it, leaving behind nothing but echoes of his name and the ghost of a raised hand that Arin could not forget. No matter how far he walked, no matter how desperately he searched, the image followed him: Blue's stunned eyes, the blood at his lip, the way the door had slammed shut like a final verdict.
Pema's sobs haunted him more than the silence. They lingered in his ears even after he left the house, after her frail hands had clutched his sleeve, begging him to bring her son back. Arin had promised her nothing—because promises were dangerous—but the guilt had already rooted itself too deep. By the time dawn crept across the sky, pale and exhausted, Arin knew he could not carry this alone. Pride had cost him too much already. And so his feet carried him, almost without thought, to the café where Rimora spent her mornings pretending the world was manageable.
She knew something was wrong the moment she saw him. Arin stood there silent, shoulders rigid, eyes darkened by a night without rest, and Rimora felt the familiar tightening in her chest—the recognition of pain she understood too well. She stopped what she was doing and listened as he spoke, his words uneven, stripped of the control he usually wore like armor. He told her everything: the argument, the uniform, the slap, the way Blue had run as if the house itself had betrayed him. When Arin finally admitted that he was afraid—afraid that Blue would be swallowed by the same city that devoured the poor without mercy—his voice broke, and something inside Rimora broke with it.
She didn't offer solutions. She didn't soften his guilt or excuse his actions. She simply placed her hand over his, grounding him, steady and warm, and told him they would look together. That no one should shoulder such weight alone. In that moment, Arin realized how desperately he had needed someone to say those words. Their decision to search was not heroic; it was human. Two people carrying too much grief, stepping into the streets because doing nothing felt worse.
City 2 greeted them with noise and indifference. Crowds pushed past without looking, vendors shouted, guards watched with cold suspicion, and life continued with cruel efficiency. Rimora led the way through back alleys and narrow paths she knew from years of walking home late, her steps quick, purposeful. As they searched, their conversations slipped into confessions neither had planned to offer. Rimora spoke of her father's failing strength, of nights when hallucinations felt more real than hope. Arin spoke of the responsibility that had crushed him since childhood, of the way love had slowly turned into control because survival demanded it. Each shared truth tightened the invisible thread between them, drawing them closer without either acknowledging it.
It happened in a place forgotten by the city—an abandoned arcade swallowed by dust and shadow. They paused there, breathless, exhaustion catching up to them. Rimora reached out, touched Arin's arm, and told him quietly that she saw him—not the protector, not the provider, but the boy who had been forced to grow too fast. The words undid something in him. Their eyes held, and in that suspended moment, the world fell away. The kiss was hesitant at first, fragile, born not of desire alone but of shared collapse. It carried guilt, longing, and the desperate need to feel understood. For a heartbeat, the chaos of cities, families, and broken bonds ceased to exist.
Then reality tore back in.
Lbow's voice cracked through the stillness like glass shattering. He stood at the entrance, disbelief frozen across his face, his expression collapsing from concern into fury in a matter of seconds. He had followed them out of loyalty, out of worry—but what he saw burned deeper than any betrayal he had imagined. Rimora in Arin's arms rewrote everything he thought he understood. His admiration curdled into rage, his friendship twisted into something sharp and venomous. Words spilled from him without restraint, accusing Arin of theft, of deception, of stealing the one person who anchored him to hope.
Arin tried to speak, tried to explain that people were not possessions, that feelings did not obey entitlement—but Lbow could no longer hear. Years of suppressed resentment and unspoken longing erupted through his fists. The fight was ugly and unrestrained, rage clashing with rage, the sound of impact echoing through the hollow space. Rimora screamed for them to stop, terror choking her voice, but anger had already deafened them. Arin's body reacted on instinct, his strength overtaking Lbow's fury, until one final shove sent his former friend crashing to the ground.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Lbow rose slowly, blood at his mouth, his eyes empty in a way that hurt more than anger ever could. His words were quiet now, bitter and final. He called Arin a traitor. He said there were wounds that could never heal. Then he turned and walked away, leaving behind not just a fight—but the corpse of a friendship that had once meant everything.
Arin sank against the wall as the weight of it all finally crushed him. Brother gone. Friend lost. The same hands that had once tried to protect now trembled with failure. Rimora knelt beside him, tears streaking her face, guilt tearing through her chest. She whispered apologies that changed nothing, comfort that could not undo what had broken. Above them, the stars watched in indifferent silence, and somewhere in the city, Blue walked alone—unaware that his absence had fractured everything left behind.