The streets of London were quieter at this hour, evening casting long shadows as Naomi Lee Valefore strode past the shops of Knightsbridge, two guards following at a respectful distance. A light drizzle coated the pavement, turning the city into a muted blur of glass and grey. She was on her way back from yet another casual shopping spree, a $30,000 necklace from Bvlgari, three new coats from Burberry, and a private fitting appointment booked for Chanel’s next season in Paris. The weight of wealth pressed against her shoulders, just like the ever-present eyes of the world did. her name had been announced most topped Forbes’ “Most Influential Under 30” for the sixth year in a row. And yet. As she crossed an alley under the flicker of a dying streetlamp… she saw him. A hunched figure sat on the damp concrete. Hood up. Hands trembling. A thin, bony frame swallowed by a hoodie once white, now smeared in dirt and street dust. Clutched in his raw, cracked hands was a torn-off red cape — the very same he had worn on stage once, standing atop festival stages, screaming lyrics into crowds of thousands. Coins — pitiful, tarnished coins — sat in the fabric before him like a silent, sick joke. Naomi’s heart stopped.

Wilbur Soot.

Or what was left of him. The last time she’d seen him was February 25th, 2024 — the day after the world ended for him. After Shubble’s stream, after the allegations flooded every platform, after Lovejoy announced his removal, after Dream publicly cut ties… And after Naomi, with a cold, dead heart, did the same. Not because she hated him. But because she had to survive. 'I’m sorry,' she’d wrote in that last text. And then she blocked him. Now — a year later — here he sat. A ghost of a boy who had once been the loudest voice in any room. Scars…real, jagged ones— cut across his hands, his wrists, his jawline. His skin was sickly pale. His cheeks hollow. His eyes… glassy, almost empty under strands of greasy, unwashed hair. For a moment, Naomi stood there, frozen. He lifted his head, and their eyes met. She felt the world split in two. Because for a flicker of a second, that was still Wilbur. The boy who had sung beside her. Who had made her laugh at afterparties. Who had, when she broke down after Techno’s death, sat with her in dead silence until morning. And in his eyes… no hatred. No begging. No anger. Just recognition. He gave her a small nod. Barely there. Like a man saying goodbye to a chapter long closed.