The penthouse was pregnant with silence so sharp it almost had a temperature that pressed against the glass, pooled in the corners as it settled over the floor like cold ash after a fire no one wanted to name.
Far below, the island continued glittering with its usual shameless indifference, all golden windows and expensive lies, as if the city had not spent the morning being dragged through enough disgrace and orchestrated ruins.
Cities were talented like that; they could watch lives collapse and still remember to look pretty for the tourists.
Cassiopeia's breathing was the only proof that life remained inside the room.
Each of her breath came rough and uneven scraped from her chest exhausted by confession, tears, and the cruel labour of finally saying aloud what had been rotting in silence.
She sat curled near the couch, eyes lowered, shoulders trembling with the remains of a breakdown she had not earned the luxury to dramatize. That thought had made the crying worse.
