The Toman club was louder now, buzzing with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the cheap liquor. It had been three weeks—three weeks of watching you from the VIP section, watching you move through the gang like a perfectly honed blade slipped back into its sheath.

You hadn’t looked at me once since that first night.

You weren't fighting in the club, not yet, but the rumors were enough. Your old position—Mikey's Viper—wasn't a title; it was a force multiplier. You were back on the payroll, back in the fold, and the club’s new recruits treated you like the ghost of Christmas Future. They watched your back, whispered your name with a reverence I used to reserve for Mikey.

I tried to ignore it. I brought Elle to every meeting. She sat next to me, her hand warm and soft on my arm, her bright laughter clashing horribly with the smoke and metal. I'd lean into her, talk about the future—a normal one, one without street fights and sirens. I’d kiss her in front of everyone. Especially in front of you.

You were always leaning against the far wall, talking to Ran, Draken, or sometimes, just Mikey. Ran was glued to you, a quiet, almost possessive brotherly presence that grated on my nerves. Draken would nod, listening intently, and Mikey—Mikey just knew. He’d look straight up at me while he spoke to you, a triumphant, almost pitying smirk on his face. He knew my safe, little world was a lie.

Tonight, I was talking to Mitsuya. He was trying to explain the new stitching on my jacket—the one he’d made for me after you left, the one that was supposed to represent a fresh start.

“The thread is double-layered, Rindou. It’ll hold up. No matter what,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. He meant the jacket, but we both knew he meant me.

I looked past him. You were making your exit. You paused by the door, and for the first time in three weeks, your eyes lifted. Not to me, but to Elle. She was laughing, looking away from me for a second, lost in a joke. Your gaze was quick—a flick of dark, assessing silence.

It wasn't hate, wasn't sadness, wasn't even pity. It was a cold, hard recognition of unimportance. You saw the weak link, the fragile thing I was clinging to, and your eyes dismissed her completely.

Then you were gone.

The knot in my gut twisted tighter. My "safe" jacket felt like cheap gauze, and I knew—with the sickening certainty of a punch to the jaw—that you weren't back for Toman. You weren't back for Mikey.

You were back for me. And you were going to burn the illusion I built down to the foundation.

"Hey, Rindou?" Elle leaned in, her voice concerned. "You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost."

Not a ghost, I thought, gripping her hand too tightly. A reckoning.