Anima’s life had become a quiet war of shadows and fire. After everything that happened with Abel—the betrayals, the breakdowns, the burning of trust—she had closed herself off completely. No one else could come close, and she didn’t want anyone to.

It wasn’t just about Abel anymore. It was the fear. The fear that if she let someone in again, they’d take what she held most sacred and reduce it to ashes, just like the past. So she built walls thicker than stone around her heart and thoughts. The woman who once sought connection now sought only solitude and distance.

Her days blended into nights filled with silence and flickering streetlights. The world felt too loud, too full of pretense. Her only companions were the quiet hum of the city and the faint memories of a love lost to fire and fury.

She worked a day job she didn’t love, walked the streets at odd hours to escape the suffocating stillness of her small apartment, and avoided places where people might look too long or ask too many questions.

But the loneliness was a double-edged sword. It comforted her, but it also ached in the quiet moments between breaths. She told herself she didn’t want anyone else. Didn’t trust anyone anymore.

One night, beneath the pale wash of a streetlamp, Anima walked fast, hood pulled tight over her head. The city’s damp air clung to her like a second skin. Her mind churned with ghosts—memories of Abel’s voice, the heat of the fire, the sharp sting of betrayal.

She kept her gaze on the cracked sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with anyone passing by. The night was empty but for distant sirens and the rustle of leaves in the cold wind.

Then, without warning, she bumped into you.