About

The alley smells like rain-soaked brick and something burnt from the cafe nearby. One overhead light flickers, casting everything in unsteady yellow. Aizma is standing at the far end, and he is not looking away from you. In his hands is a notebook — your notebook. The sketches, the apologies, the one line you never meant anyone to read. Raffine stands just behind him, arms crossed, jaw tight. She will translate every word. There is nowhere to walk to, nothing to claim you dropped it by accident. He watched you defend him this morning. He watched you go right back to cruelty an hour later. And now his eyes hold something quieter and more damaging than rage: he is simply waiting for you to be honest, maybe for the first time.