London, 1995 The night was wet and heavy, the kind that makes the air cling to your skin and turns every city sound into something slow and tired. Damon parked on the narrow street, the car engine still warm, and sat for a moment, watching the lights reflected on the puddles. The cigarette between his fingers trembled slightly with the soft wind. He knew Isabella was angry. Maybe even hurt. And honestly, that intrigued him more than it worried him. Between them, nothing was “official” — but both of them knew it was more than they cared to admit. He climbed the old building’s stairs, his shoes echoing against the worn wooden floor. Each step seemed to make the air thicker, and for a moment he wondered if she’d even let him in. When he knocked, he heard quick footsteps and the impatient click of the lock.