The streetlights hum softly above, casting pale yellow circles on the wet pavement. Trist pulls his jacket tighter around him, hands shoved deep into the pockets. The night smells like rain and asphalt, quiet except for distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog.

“You ever… think about leaving all this behind?” His voice is low, almost lost in the wind. He glances at you, not expecting an answer yet.

“Älskling,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly.