A few days have passed.
The late afternoon sun bled orange across the chaotic streets of Draxen, turning the traffic into a moving river of metal.
Ira walked beside her classmate Aria, both girls in school uniforms, bags slung over shoulders, trying to cross the wide intersection near the old clock tower. The signal was green for pedestrians, but the cars never stopped—drivers honked, engines revved, tires rolled forward in impatient jerks.
Ira hesitated at the curb, long dark hair swaying as she scanned for a gap.
Aria sighed. "They never wait. We'll be here forever."
Across the intersection, in the third lane of stalled traffic, a matte-black Bentley sat motionless. Vernon Krossvale occupied the driver's seat, coat open over his bare chest, long dark hair falling forward to shadow his sharp jaw.
His gaze drifted idly across the road.
Then it locked.
Ira.
Standing at the curb, sunlight catching in her hair, uniform skirt fluttering in the wind, one hand shielding her eyes as she tried to judge the traffic.
Vernon's breath stopped.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
For one suspended second, the city disappeared. No horns. No exhaust. Just her.
Then he saw her hesitate again—cars surging forward despite the signal, no gap opening.
His jaw clenched.
Without a word, he shifted into gear.
The Bentley roared to life.
He floored it—tires screeching as he cut across two lanes, swinging the long black car sideways in one violent maneuver. It skidded to a halt horizontally, blocking the entire road like a barricade of steel and shadow.
Brakes screamed behind him. Horns blared in furious chorus.
"Who the hell—?!"
"Move your damn car!"
"Get out of the way, asshole!"
Ira startled, eyes widening.
The driver's window rolled down.
Vernon Krossvale leaned out, long dark hair falling forward.
He pulled a sleek black pistol from inside his coat and leveled it calmly out the window toward the traffic.
The horns died instantly.
Silence crashed down.
Engines quieted. Drivers shrank back in their seats. Faces paled behind windshields. A motorcycle wobbled and nearly fell.
Silence swallowed the intersection—except for the low, menacing rumble of the Bentley's engine.
Vernon kept his death gaze at them for a moment.
Then, he turned his head slowly toward the opposite window and opened it.
His gaze found Ira.
Those sharp, shadowed eyes—locked on her.
Ira's breath caught.
Vernon said nothing.
He simply stared—intense, unblinking, a silent command wrapped in deadly patience.
The traffic remained frozen.
Ira swallowed hard.
Then—shivering, clutching her bag to her chest—she stepped forward.
She crossed the road—quick, unsteady steps—eyes never leaving his.
Vernon watched every movement: the sway of her hair, the way her skirt brushed her thighs, the faint tremble in her shoulders.
She reached the opposite curb.
Safe.
Vernon lowered the pistol.
Shifted into gear.
The Bentley peeled away in a low growl, leaving the intersection in stunned silence.
Behind him, drivers slowly unclenched their fists, whispering.
"That was Vernon Krossvale…"
"He stopped the whole road… for two school girls to pass…"
Ira stood on the curb, heart hammering, staring after the disappearing car.
Aria exhaled shakily. "Holy shit… he just… he stopped the whole road for you."
Ira didn't answer.
She felt the rapid thud of her own heart—and whispered to herself, barely audible:
"Why did he do that?"
The city roared back to life around her.
But for Ira, the world had narrowed to one question.
And one pair of eyes that pierced through her soul.
After two weeks.
The neon heart of Draxton's pulsed under a starless sky. The club — **Velvet Abyss** — sprawled like black glass and chrome, three stories of exclusive debauchery reserved for those who could afford to forget the war outside. A velvet rope guarded the entrance, flanked by two stone-faced bouncers in tailored black.
Inside, crimson and violet lights throbbed to a bassline that felt like a heartbeat in the chest. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, reflecting off mirrored walls and polished obsidian floors. Private booths lined the upper levels, half-hidden behind sheer black curtains. The main dance floor writhed with bodies in designer clothes, champagne flutes catching light like knives.
Elvina Arlor led the group through the rope like she owned it — she was the richest in her group. Her father owned half the luxury resorts along the eastern coast.
She wore a shimmering black mini-dress that caught every light, heels clicking with confidence.
Elvina spun around, grinning huge. "Okay, girls, we're in! VIP booth upstairs — let's go!"
Ira hung back, arms crossed over her simple navy dress — modest, knee-length, nothing flashy. Her long dark wavy hair was loose, framing a face carrying sweet shame. She looked around, overwhelmed.
Ira froze at the entrance, arms crossed tight over her navy dress. "Guys… this is so much. I've literally never been anywhere like this. The music's too loud."
Celia laughed and grabbed her arm. "That's the point, babe! You've been living in your sketchbook for weeks. Come on, one night. You deserve to feel alive."
Rina nodded eagerly, already bouncing on her heels now,barely able to contain her excitement.
"Thank God Elvina's dad owns like half the resorts in the east," she said with a breathless laugh. "If it weren't for her, we'd still be stuck outside those gates. We actually had the money to bribe the security and slip in like VIPs."
Her eyes sparkled with reckless thrill. "There's just one life, okay? One. And I refuse to spend mine playing safe all the time. We're young. We're here. We enjoy it — no regrets."
Zara smiled . "Ira, We really wanted you here. You always make us feel better. Just stay for like… an hour? If you hate it, we leave. Pinky swear."
Ira looked at their faces — she was a bit anxious.
"Okay… but if I freak out, you guys need to take care of that."
They laughed, "sure!"
To be continued...