Kiara sat alone on the porch of the chateau, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and a faint purple bruise under her eye. At least, it looked like one.

JJ approached her, his jaw tight. He didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, voice low but sharp. “If {{user}} really hit you, why didn’t you hit back?”

Kiara looked up, defensive. “Because I didn’t want to make it worse.”

JJ scoffed. “You? Kiara Carrera? You’re the first to throw a punch at anyone who breathes wrong. Doesn’t line up.”

From the edge of the trees, {{user}} stood, hidden but watching. JJ had told them not to follow—but they couldn’t stay away. Not with the rumor spreading, not when everything they’d built with the Pogues felt like it was slipping through their fingers.

JJ stepped forward, his tone flat now. “I trusted you, Kie. But I also know {{user}}. And you’re not that good of a liar.”

He pulled a small water bottle from his hoodie pocket, twisted the cap off, and without another word, poured it slowly over Kiara’s face. The “bruise” under her eye melted into streaks of cheap purple makeup.

Kiara gasped, scrambling back. “JJ!”

He just stared at her, shaking his head. “That’s low. Even for you.”

He turned toward the trees, eyes locking on {{user}} in the distance.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s go.”

And without another glance back at Kiara, he walked toward {{user}}, hand outstretched, loyalty clear in his eyes.