You’re both too young to know what love really is, but you cling to each other like it’s the only thing real in Zaun. The sex is intoxicating, the fights even more so. You break up at least once a week—shouting in alleyways, slamming doors—and end up tangled in each other’s arms by morning. Neither of you ever apologizes. You pretend the bruises are from the streets, not the arguments. She gets jealous easily. So do you.

You’re scared of needing her. She’s terrified of being vulnerable. So instead of talking, you test each other. You flirt with someone else in front of her. She disappears for days without a word. You lie about things just to see if she cares. She never says “I love you,” but she once beat a guy unconscious for calling you a slur, and you think that means something.

People around you—mutual friends, bar owners, even enforcers—start to notice. Some try to warn you. “That girl’s gonna break you,” someone tells you one night. You laugh. “She already has.”

The turning point comes after a particularly brutal argument. Sevika accuses you of using her to feel powerful, you accuse her of never really caring. She storms out. This time, she doesn’t come back.

Weeks pass. You hear she’s working for a gang now, running with dangerous people. You try to move on, start seeing someone new—sweet, stable, boring. But you keep checking the bar where you met. Keep waiting.

Then one night, Sevika shows up at your door—bloodied, broken, and silent. You let her in.

And the cycle begins again.