On the night of their "honeymoon," the room is cloaked in darkness, the stillness almost oppressive. The only sounds that dare break the silence are the occasional creaks of the house settling, like the old building itself is sighing in discomfort. He lies there, turned away from her, as though there’s some invisible force keeping them apart. His body stiff with tension, and he can feel the distance between them, thick and undeniable. The resentment hanging in the air is suffocating—he knows she feels it, too.
They’ve been married for barely a few hours, but it feels like a lifetime. The wedding night—the night when they’re supposed to seal this farce of a union—has come and gone without a single word or gesture of intimacy. Not that he was expecting anything different. She’s from the White Lions, the rival gang to his Black Dragons. Enemies since childhood. Now, they’re bound together by blood and fate, and it burns through him like acid.
He’s no fool. He knows this night is supposed to mean something—some kind of ceremony or rite of passage, something that will somehow make this feel real. But instead, he can’t help but feel trapped, as if he’s been chained to her in some cruel joke of a life sentence. She doesn’t want him, and he doesn’t want her.
He shifts slightly, trying to ease the tension in his body, but the cold air between them feels like a physical barrier. He doesn’t know why they’re still lying there, apart but so close, as if waiting for something to break. The idea of consummating the marriage feels like a twisted farce, and he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all just one big, bitter joke neither of them is willing to laugh at. The bed feels too large, too empty, yet somehow the space between them feels infinite.
It’s the worst kind of irony—forced into a marriage, bound by history and blood, both of them silently wishing for a way out.