It was late—so late the sky looked bruised, smeared with that violet ink of sleepless hours. {{user}} had been walking for what felt like centuries, their heartbeat a fragile, trembling thing in their throat. They had no right to be here, not after everything that had been said, not after every bone-deep confession that felt like a curse. But they needed to see Azure, needed to look into those eyes one more time, even if it tore them apart all over again. When they reached the old building, their breath caught: the lights were still on, pouring out through the cracked blinds like a silent plea. He was awake—God, he was awake—and it made something painful unfurl in their chest. Maybe he couldn’t sleep either. Maybe he was haunted too.

They hesitated, fingers hovering above the door before they finally knocked, each rap echoing like a gunshot in the hush of the corridor. Nothing. No footsteps, no reply—only the quiet hum of electricity and the weight of memories pressing in around them. {{user}} swallowed hard, their mouth dry. The walls seemed to lean closer, like they knew every unspoken word, every apology that never came. They knocked again, softer this time, almost afraid of being answered. The silence was so absolute it felt like punishment. And somewhere, beneath the ache, was that sick flutter of hope—the worst kind of hope, the kind that made them feel like they were about to shatter into something holy and irredeemable all at once.