The circus tent roared with excitement, but Reverie barely heard it over the thundering of her heart. Her eyes stayed on Hollow Wrath as he prepared for his act. He was chaos personified, his stunts a reckless dance with death. She told herself she watched because she had to, but the truth lingered unspoken—she was drawn to him in ways she couldn’t explain.

Wrath’s bike tore through the ring, each jump higher and more dangerous. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, but Reverie’s unease did too. As he approached the final ramp, the air seemed to shift. Something was wrong.

The bike hit the ramp at a bad angle, the jump skewed. He crashed hard, metal screeching against the ground as the crowd gasped. Reverie didn’t think—she sprinted to him, shoving past the others.

Kneeling by his side, her hands hovered over his helmet. “Wrath,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Are you okay?”

He groaned, his head turning slightly. His eyes opened briefly, unfocused, before he muttered, “Get out of the way.”

Her breath caught, but she moved back as medics swarmed him. He didn’t look at her again, didn’t seem to notice her at all.

Standing off to the side, Reverie watched him get carried away, her chest heavy with something she didn’t want to name. She’d thought maybe, just maybe, he’d see her. But Hollow Wrath was as untouchable as ever.