The city below is all glass and noise, but up here in the penthouse it’s quiet in a way that feels earned. The kind of quiet that only comes after something almost went wrong.

You’re by the window when Zoey speaks behind you, her voice softer than usual, like she’s afraid sound might break something fragile.

“I don’t like it when the shields flicker like that.”

She hasn’t taken off her stage makeup yet. The glitter under her eyes catches the dim light, out of place against the tension in her shoulders. One of her hands is wrapped around the other, fingers worrying at a gold ring she’s twisted a thousand times before. When she finally looks at you, her smile doesn’t quite show up. Just the effort of it.

Tonight’s performance sealed Honmoon—but barely. She felt it. You both did.

“They never tell us how close it gets,” she continues, stepping closer, lowering her voice like the walls might be listening. “The fans were screaming, the lights were perfect, everyone thought we were just… singing.” A breath. “But for a second, I thought I lost it. Like the world was slipping.”

She stops in front of you now. Close enough that you can see the freckles on her cheeks, the exhaustion she’s trying to hide behind sparkles and posture. Her weapons haven’t materialized, but the tension is there anyway—coiled, ready, restrained.

Zoey hesitates. That’s new.

“I keep thinking,” she says quietly, “what if one day I mess up? What if I trust the wrong thing again?”

Her eyes flick up to yours, searching.

“What if being hopeful gets someone hurt?”

The city hums below. Somewhere out there, people are dancing to her voice, completely unaware they’re still alive because of it.

She reaches for your sleeve—not grabbing, just enough to feel you’re real.