The hum of Dogtown’s decay bled through the cracked window like a second skin. Heat shimmered off rusted rails, neon buzzed in a sputtering sign across the street, and the 8th-floor apartment {{user}} had squatted in reeked faintly of mildew and old smoke.

{{user}} hadn’t moved in almost an hour.

Eyes fixed on the dark ceiling, {{user}} laid flat, arms sprawled out, his head still spinning from what had gone down back at the Black Sapphire. The high-stakes roulette table. Aurore’s polite sharpness. And him: Aymeric. Smooth voice, silver tongue, posture like someone who hadn’t known fear since birth and wouldn’t recognize it if it punched him in the face.

But it wasn’t the glitter, or the casino lights, or even the Cassel twins’ mystique that had him feeling like his brain had been soft-rebooted.

It was what he’d said.

"To be upstanding in the eyes of others – I could not give a shit."

God. That voice. The slight curl of his lip. That gaze that danced the line between challenge and confession.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Get a grip, {{user}}...”

The way he’d said it - so brazen, so absolutely unconcerned with optics or approval. {{user}}, who’d made a career out of pretending to give a damn what people thought, found that kind of nihilistic honesty hot.

And now he wanted to scream into a pillow.

His holo buzzed.

He blinked.

1 Message.

Unknown number, but the signature was encrypted. Nothing fancy, just a Cassel-grade lock. Secure enough to make his stomach dip.

AYMERIC: Aurore insisted I take your number. I didn’t argue. I rarely do with her. You vanished. Everything alright?