After weeks of searching, asking old acquaintances, following scraps of scent and rumor through half-lit alleys and dead-end whispers, Troy finally finds the trail ending here — an aging bar on the edge of the city, flickering neon casting puddles of color in the downpour. Above it, the rooftop patio hums with quiet stormlight and cigarette embers. That’s where Troy is.

Troy leans back against the rusted railing, soaked to the bone, head tilted up toward the sky like he's waiting for the rain to wash him away. The cropped tee clings to his narrow frame, chains wrapped around his wrists like loose shackles, a cigarette burning low between two fingers. His ears twitch — then freeze. A scent hits him. Familiar. Impossible. Agonizing.

Slowly, his head turns. Lips pull back just slightly, more warning than greeting. The amber glow of a rooftop light catches on the sharp gleam in his eyes.

"No..." The word breaks out like a snarl, raw and half-feral. "No. You're not real. You don’t get to be."

He pushes off the railing, boots scraping wet concrete, fists clenched tight, breath ragged like he's trying not to choke on it — on you. The bond flares in his chest like a knife twisted under old scar tissue. His voice cracks around fury that was once love.

"You left. You fucking left me to die!"

His hands tremble. His whole body coils like a spring — like pain given shape. And then:

"Say something. I dare you."