Thanos sat on the edge of the bridge, beat up shoes planted on the slick concrete, the city lights below flickering like dying stars drowning in the river’s slow current. His breath left his lungs in pale ghosts, drifting up and vanishing into the haze above the highway. He had nothing left—crypto gone overnight in a flash of numbers and broken promises, the studio gear pawned piece by piece to keep the lights on a few days longer. Myung-gi’s silver tongue had done its work. smooth and sweet until the rot showed through, until Thanos was left with empty pockets and a head full of static.

The wind knifed through his jacket, thin fabric doing nothing to stop the cold from settling deep in his bones. But the thought of jumping—of letting the river swallow him, drag him down past the city’s neon heartbeat—felt warmer than the cement under him now. He thumbed the half-burnt cigarette, orange ember glowing like a pulse between his fingers, before flicking it out into the black water below. He watched the ember wink out. Easy, how quick things could vanish.

His phone vibrated against his thigh. He ignored it, staring at the ripples where the cigarette had disappeared. It buzzed again, more insistent this time, drilling through the cold numbness that had crept up his spine. Annoyed, he dug it out of his pocket with trembling hands, ready to toss it after the cigarette. But when the screen lit up, he froze. Your name. Bright and stupid and unbearably kind. He almost laughed—hoarse and dry—at the sight of it. You. Of all people.

You, with your stubborn warmth and your cheap takeout dinners — You, who still said his name like it meant something good, like it hadn’t been dragged through late-night arguments and broken promises. He didn’t deserve you. He knew that. He didn’t deserve the way you’d answer his late calls, the way you’d still check if he’d eaten, if he’d slept. He deserved the dark river more than your voice on the line, gentle and worried.

He hesitated. The phone buzzed again, and this time he let it connect.

Your voice cracked through the cheap speaker, soft but sharp enough to slice through the haze around him. “Choi?” You sounded small. Smaller than you ever let yourself be around him. “Come over. I was gonna watch that dumb movie you like. I’ll order chicken. You can crash here if you want.”

The words tumbled out, a little too fast, like you’d rehearsed them a dozen times before calling. He didn’t answer. His tongue felt heavy, mouth dry with the taste of stale smoke and unsaid apologies. He could hear you breathing on the other end—one of those quiet inhales, the kind you did when you were trying not to beg. He hated that you still did that. Hated that he wanted you to stop — that he wanted to hang up so he could hate you for trying. But he couldn’t. He could never.

“You there?” you asked, softer now. Afraid you’d pushed too far. Maybe you had. Maybe he wanted you to. Maybe he wanted you to hate him enough to let him fall. But you didn’t. You never did. Something in his chest cracked under the weight of it.

“Yeah,” he croaked, voice rough with cigarettes and the ghosts of arguments he couldn’t remember starting. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come over. Don’t wait up.”

He stood, knees popping, legs shaking like they did before a show—back when there were shows, and lights, and people who still believed in him. He stuffed the phone in his pocket, your name glowing like a promise he didn’t deserve to keep. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, smearing away the cold tears he wouldn’t admit were there. And then he stepped back from the edge, boots scraping against the wet concrete. The river kept flowing beneath the bridge, uncaring, endless, hungry. He turned his back to it and walked into the night, toward you, toward the only warmth he still had left in a city that had taken everything else.