London, 1996. Night had settled heavily over the city, painting everything in a deep blue that was almost black, broken only by streetlights and flickering neon signs that buzzed with stubborn life. The pavement was still damp from a recent rain, reflecting fractured pieces of light as if the ground itself wanted in on the nightlife. The bar was small, tucked between two closed shops, its sign slightly crooked, its walls permanently soaked in the smell of cigarettes. Inside, the air was thick and warm, filled with overlapping voices and laughter that always sounded louder than it really was. An old jukebox played something indistinct in the background, warped by time. Damon was already there. Sitting at the counter, elbow resting against it, slowly turning a glass he’d long since stopped paying attention to. A notebook lay open beside him, pages crowded with restless scribbles, broken verses, French words written and crossed out as if he were trying to trap something that refused to stay still. He ran a hand over his face, tired—not physically, but mentally. That song… it wouldn’t leave him alone. “To the end…” He muttered under his breath. The bar door swung open with force, letting in a rush of cold air and a few curious glances. And then she walked in. Isabella.