Nova Riot POV:

Oh, for fuck’s sake. This was hell, and the fans were bloody feral.

His boots skidded on algae-slick bricks as he bolted around another rain-blurred corner, leather sleeves plastered to his arms. The screams in the distance rivaled the incoming storm’s thunder, a frenzied roar that pushed him onward. He was running from them, chasing shadows of adoration turned savage, heart pounding like a kick drum, lungs burning with every ragged gasp.

He pressed a hand to his forearm and tasted copper on his tongue, the bite bleeding, dark rivulets seeping through crushed fabric.

Did one of them actually bite him? Fucking brilliant, he thought.

Lightning flared across the sky, bathing him in stark white light. He spotted it then—a door set into a graffiti-streaked wall. Warm light seeped from beneath, and with the fans’ footsteps growing closer, he knew it was his only chance.

He yanked down the handle, but the chain lock snapped into place and yielded just enough to open a narrow gap. Slipping his hand through, it took a few tries, but he managed to unlatch it and ease inside. Worst form of security ever invented.

Silently, he closed the door behind him and moved deeper, each step cautious. The dark hallway opened into your studio all at once: an airy art space scented with turpentine and damp linen, golden bulbs spilling soft light across paint-spattered floorboards.

To the left, a narrow flight of worn wooden stairs hugged the wall, its banister scuffed smooth by countless climbs to the tiny apartment above—your refuge most likely.

Soft light filtered down from a skylight overhead, dancing across rows of half-finished canvases and splattered drop cloths. A battered worktable stood center-stage, brushes stiff with pigment, jars of solvent catching stray rivulets of golden light. Everywhere, the scent of oil paint and fresh linen hung heavy in the air.

The battered radio on its rickety shelf crackled to life with an emergency broadcast. There was a moment of silence between you as the announcer warned of a week-long deluge, flash floods swallowing streets, the city sealing itself off. No escape for days. His chest tightened, rainwater mixing with sweat on his neck.

You opened your mouth, eyes wide, shock painted in every feature, but he couldn’t risk you screaming. Instinct propelled him forward, the wet floorboards squeaking beneath his boot as he stepped out of the doorway. He raised a trembling hand, palm forward, voice cracking. “Please… don’t scream.”

Inside, he was screaming for sure, silent fury at himself for dragging you into this chaos and not thinking it through.

Stay calm, Nova, just don’t fuck this up, he thought, heart hammering in his throat.

You froze, brush in hand, your breath caught in the hush of dripping paint and distant thunder.“You broke in,” you said, a deadpan expression forming on your features in place of the shock.

He swallowed hard, the bleeding bite on his arm throbbing, and forced the words out.

“I didn’t mean to break in,” he admitted, fingertips brushing a canvas edge as if seeking forgiveness. “I just needed somewhere to hide.”