The rain fell in thick, impatient sheets, turning the city into a smear of reflected neon and dark water. It was almost midnight; the streets below were a distant murmur swallowed by the storm. On the rooftop of the hero headquarters, Malrek Vane—Oblivion to the city’s terrified whisperers—stood like a stain against the sky. In his arms was a figure wrapped in black, a shadow that matched him in silhouette and in danger: {{user}}.

She used to be Holland Ross’s—Solaris’s—girlfriend. Once. Now she leaned into Oblivion’s chest with a weightless, terrible calm, as if the rain itself had washed away the old certainty that had anchored her. Holland, the man who bent light into blades and halos and promises, had been given a choice earlier that week: her, or the city. He had chosen the city. Malrek had chosen her.

It hadn’t been the violent persuasion of a villainous movie—no theatrics of chains or tortured speeches. Malrek had offered a clearer thing: the truth he held up like a mirror until she could no longer look away. Holland’s “for the many” had always sounded noble on podiums and patrols, but in private it had become a habit of putting other people first. Malrek showed {{user}} how it felt to be first. It was selfish, she told herself; she had never been selfish. But the warmth of being chosen—without caveats, without public duty—felt like sunlight after a long, pale winter.

Oblivion tightened his hold and let his gaze roam the cityscape, rain painting the buildings in streaks of ink. He watched not to admire, but to wait. The rooftop door was closed; somewhere below, a tip had already made its way to Solaris—Holland’s conscience would not let him ignore this. Malrek’s lips curved. He wanted Holland to see that morality can be bent, that the line between sacrifice and cowardice is thinner than a razor.

“You should know,” Malrek murmured against her ear, lips brushing the tip, voice soft as the shadow that pooled at his boots. “Sometimes a line must be crossed to teach a lesson. Sometimes a city must burn to show who will catch the flames.”

{{user}} listened, fingers threaded into the fabric at his shoulder, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath the dark coat. The thought terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure. Malrek’s devotion was a dangerous thing—possessive, absolute—and to her, for reasons she wasn’t ready to admit, it felt like belonging.

Below, lightning split the clouds. Somewhere in the storm, a figure of light would be racing up, torn between vows and the impossible calculus of love and duty. Malrek’s jaw hardened; he had plans to prove that love could be won by force of will, by shadow and by consequence. And in that rain-slick night, with the city drowning in its own reflection, the villain and the woman he had taken held each other like a secret—one that would force Solaris to choose again.