Chapter Text
Through the workshop’s tall window, the sun slides toward the horizon, stretching orange trails across the walls. The sky deepens into copper and violet, and the fading light catches in Powder’s eyes without her noticing.
It’s always this moment that tells her it’s time to go home.
She puts her tools away with mechanical precision, wipes her hands on an already overused rag, and checks twice that everything is in its place.
Then she grabs her bag and heads for the door.
The moment her hand touches the handle, it lowers, and the door opens.
Silco steps in and stops at the threshold. He removes his gloves, lets his gaze sweep over the neatly arranged workshop, then settles it on her.
He looks at her the way only those who watched you grow up know how to.
«You’re leaving already?»
Powder looks up at him. A small smile pulls at her lips, almost automatic, but genuine.
«Yes. I finished earlier than expected.»
He nods, eyeing her bag already on her shoulder.
«We could grab dinner somewhere. A change of scenery.»
She glances down for a second, adjusts the strap, then looks back at him.
«Not tonight. I have plans.»
Her smile is still there, light.
She tilts her head, as if to soften the refusal.
Silco stays quiet. His gaze searches for what he doesn’t put into words.
«Are you sure?»
«Yes.»
She pauses, then adds, softer: «I promise, another time.»
He sighs. Not irritated. More uncertain.
«Alright. Take care on the road.»
She gives a small wave.
«I’ve got it.»
His gaze lingers on her a second longer, then he steps aside to let her through.
On her way out, Powder drags her feet slightly through the corridor lit by the pale wash of fluorescent lights.
She passes a few coworkers, familiar faces, polite smiles, the kind she shares breaks with without ever really opening up.
One of them, hair pulled into a neat ponytail, approaches with eyes bright with enthusiasm.
«Hey, are you going to the True Damage concert tonight?» she asks, her voice a little too bright. «I got my tickets, it’d be fun to meet up there.»
The name hits too hard.
Powder manages a light smile, and her fingers drift automatically to the keychain hanging from her bag. The plastic is slightly scratched, the photo inside bent at the corners from being touched so often. She traces the edge of it with her thumb, a gesture she no longer controls.
«No, I’m not going. Sorry.»
Another coworker, bolder, moves closer, drawn in by the unexpected refusal.
«Seriously? I figured you’d definitely be there.» She tilts her head, curious. «You knew Ekko before he got famous, right?»
He’s my ex. You know that.
She keeps her eyes down a second too long.
«I would have loved to… really.» Her throat tightens, but her smile stays in place, fragile, almost translucent. «But I didn’t get tickets.»
A brief silence settles in, short, but enough to thicken the air.
«Well… I’ll leave you to it. Have a good evening. Enjoy.»
She turns away before they can add anything.
Her footsteps ring a little too loud against the smooth floor.
Behind her, the whispers don’t take long.
«Did you see her… she still has that photo on her bag.»
«That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?»
The words brush past her. They don’t pierce her, but they follow her, clinging to her shoulders like an extra shadow.
Her fingers tighten around the keychain.
She doesn’t turn back.
She keeps walking.
As if everything was fine.
Outside, the air is cooler, heavy with a dampness that settles on the skin like a thin film. The light fades, swallowed by a sky of almost metallic blue-grey that gives the building fronts a cold gleam.
Powder stops at the entrance and breathes in deeply. The air fills her lungs with brutal clarity, as if trying to wake her, to force her to feel beyond the gentle numbness she has been cultivating for years.
The city doesn’t sound like itself tonight. It hums differently, more electric, more restless.
Groups pass by talking loudly, their voices charged with excitement, laughter ricocheting off the shop windows, and one name keeps coming back, repeated with an almost contagious fervor.
True Damage.
She drops her gaze and starts walking. Her heels strike the pavement with a steady rhythm.
Her face stays calm.
As if that name provoked nothing at all.
At the corner, she slows, without knowing why.
Her fingers drift back toward her bag. This time, they don’t stop at the keychain and the photo. They move lower, searching for the zipper.
She opens it carefully, as if the mere rustling of fabric might give something away.
Inside, the envelope is there.
Creased from being taken out, looked at, then carefully put back, again and again.
She pulls it out gently, and two tickets slide between her fingers.
The paper is thicker than she remembered when she bought them.
Her gaze lingers on the date.
On the time.
On the name printed in thick letters.
True Damage.
Her lips press together.
«I didn’t get tickets…»
The lie still echoes in her memory.
She studies them for a few more seconds, motionless in the middle of the pavement.
Finally, she folds the tickets back with almost excessive care, smooths the edge with her thumb, then tucks them back into the envelope.
She closes the zipper, as if the gesture sealed something greater than a piece of fabric.
She adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
Lifts her chin.
And resumes her walk to the car.
Back home, her apartment door closes behind her with a sharp click.
The silence greets her immediately, familiar, the kind that belongs to a space where nothing hums unless she decides it should.
Powder sets her bag on the coffee table without turning on the lights and crosses the room to the speaker. The small indicator light glows in the dark.
The first chord rings out softly, a deep, resonant bass.
A voice she would recognize anywhere.
Ekko.
The music fills the space, slides along the walls, seeps under her skin like a diffuse warmth. And the Last Drop’s kitchen comes back immediately.
The light seemed too white that day. Almost clinical. It flattened everything, made it all harder than it perhaps needed to be.
He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, shoulders a little too straight to be natural. That posture he took when he was trying to hold himself together.
He was avoiding her eyes.
«It’s an opportunity, Powder.»
His voice was calm. Practiced, as if he’d rehearsed the sentence in his head before saying it.
«I know.»
She knew.
She had even been the first to encourage him. The record label. The contract. The tours. She had told him he was made for it, that he deserved more than the makeshift stages and patched-together studios.
In the apartment, the music shifts key. The bass becomes more insistent.
In the kitchen, he takes a deep breath.
«I need to focus. I can’t do both.»
The words fall between them with a deceptive softness.
She frowns.
Her mind refuses to connect the pieces.
She still thinks he’s talking about schedules, exhaustion, impossible hours.
Not about them.
«We can’t keep going like this.»
Like this.
The words still stretch in her head, years later, like a note that refuses to die.
In the memory, she nods.
Slowly. She smiles. A soft, understanding smile, almost proud.
Because she doesn’t want to be the one holding him back.
Because she believes, perhaps naively, that real love knows when to step aside.
In the apartment, the music reaches the chorus. Powerful. Luminous. Triumphant.
Powder’s eyes snap open.
The ceiling takes shape above her, crossed with shifting shadows.
Her chest rises a little too quickly.
Her heart takes a few seconds to find its rhythm again.
He wanted to chase his dream.
So did I.
Just not without him.
And that, perhaps, is what she never managed to tell him.
After getting ready, Powder stands still in front of the mirror. Then she turns slightly.
The black strappy top hugs her figure, fitted just right. The beige high-waisted trousers lengthen her lines, understated and elegant. Around her neck, several fine gold chains layer over one another, a small engraved tag, a delicate chain, a pendant on an almost invisible wire.
They tangle when she moves, but she doesn’t untangle them.
She runs her fingers through her hair one last time, smooths a stray strand behind her ear, then adjusts the thin braid she made on the side.
Her eyes stay on the mirror a second too long.
Everything is there.
So that he might recognize me.
Her gaze leaves the mirror, drifts over the room without lingering. The music continues to vibrate in the air, enveloping.
Ekko’s voice resonates through the speaker, accompanied by the other members of the group.
Powder crosses the room.
Her fingers brush the papers pinned to the wall.
The dry texture beneath her fingers, the edges warped by time, the pins holding them in place cold against her skin.
She takes the second ticket from her pocket.
The paper is smoother than the others.
More recent.
She pins it to the wall with quiet precision, pressing the pin in with care. The gesture is simple, but solemn.
Then she steps back.
The song approaches its final chorus.
Her hand hovers above the speaker for a few seconds.
She hesitates.
As if she were about to interrupt something alive.
The chorus bursts out one final time.
She presses, and the sound cuts out clean.
Silence falls back into the room brutally, denser than before, almost deafening.
Powder stays still.
Then she breathes in.
And this time, there is nothing but her own heartbeat to fill the space.
It beats too fast.
She turns and walks to the bed. Her bag is there, left a few minutes earlier.
Her fingers find the keychain.
She unclips it, and the small photo slides between her fingers.
Me and Ekko.
The day of his first studio session.
They’re both smiling. A wide, slightly awkward smile. He has that bright look, still disbelieving, as if he doesn’t dare accept that it’s all really beginning.
She looks at him more than the lens.
She strokes the laminated surface. The plastic is warm under her fingers.
And if,
And if he doesn’t even look at you.
And if he doesn’t recognize you anymore.
Her eyelids close for a second.
The world hangs in that suspended beat.
No.
She slips the photo into her trouser pocket.
Then she grabs her keys and walks to the door, ready to leave.
Outside the stadium where the concert is about to take place, the queue is enormous.
The crowd stretches as far as she can see.
And in the middle of it, Powder feels like a grain of sand in a shifting desert. An anonymous figure among hundreds of others who came for the same reason.
For him.
Some are already getting into it , music blasting from portable speakers, choruses shouted in unison, laughter too loud.
The air is saturated with excitement.
The bass from the soundcheck reverberates through the stadium walls, and the ground vibrates beneath her feet.
So does her heart.
When she finally reaches the booth, her fingers are a little colder than they should be. She hands over her ticket.
The man scans the code.
«You’re all set. VIP seats are in the upper section. You can go through on the left.»
Up high.
Far away.
«No… it’s fine. I’d rather be in the pit.»
Her voice is calm, but firm.
He shrugs.
«Alright. For the meet-and-greet at the end, you’ll need to show this badge to see the artists. Don’t lose it.»
As if I could lose it.
He hands her the badge.
She takes it.
The plastic is light. Almost absurd.
All my savings for this badge.
She clips it to her wrist and steps inside.
She weaves her way through the endless stream of people heading toward the concert hall. Conversations blend with bursts of laughter and the surrounding noise, forming a constant murmur that echoes throughout the corridor.
Lost in thought, Powder pays little attention to what is happening around her.
Then, turning a little too quickly, her shoulder bumps into someone.
« Oh, sorry… »
She stops immediately.
The man in front of her bends down to pick up a small black earbud that has just fallen to the floor. The motion is quick, almost nervous. As he reaches for it, Powder catches sight of the pale green tattoo on the back of his hand.
Her gaze locks onto it instantly.
« John? »
The name slips out before she can stop it, and the man looks up.
For a second, surprise flashes across his face before a smile spreads across his lips.
« Powder? »
A small, disbelieving laugh escapes him.
« Wow… it’s been a while. »
« I think I’m the one who should be saying that. »
A polite smile touched with genuine surprise appears on Powder’s face.
« Why don’t you come to the club anymore? »
John rubs the back of his neck.
« I quit swimming a while ago. »
His gaze drifts toward the people moving around them.
« I decided to focus on other things. »
Powder raises an eyebrow as she takes a better look at him. His shoulders seem even broader than they were a year ago, his frame more imposing, as though time had decided to turn him into a true giant.
« I hope you’re not talking about that ridiculous gang of yours. »
John lets out an amused sigh and gently shakes his head.
« It’s not a gang… Let’s just say I help my sister’s boyfriend with his business. »
« That sounds exactly like something a gang member would say. »
This time, he laughs outright.
For a few seconds, the conversation regains something simple and familiar.
Then Powder tilts her head slightly.
« By the way, what are you doing here? »
Around them, the crowd continues flowing toward the main entrance.
« Are you here for the concert? »
John opens his mouth to answer, but his attention seems to drift for a fraction of a second.
His gaze shoots past Powder’s shoulder.
« Um… no. »
He blinks before looking back at her.
« My sister wanted to go to the concert. I just dropped her off. »
Powder instinctively follows his gaze.
Dozens of faces pass by.
Strangers.
Groups of friends.
Couples.
Nothing that particularly catches her attention.
« What were you looking at? » she asks, turning back to him.
John blinks.
« What? »
« Just now. »
For a brief moment, his eyes drift over her shoulder again, drawn toward something in the middle of the crowd. The movement is so quick that Powder could have almost missed it.
Then his attention returns to her.
« Nothing. »
The smile he gives her afterward is still there, but it feels less natural than the previous ones.
« Sorry, I’m kind of in a hurry… It was good seeing you again, Powder. » he says, taking a step back.
Powder gives him a small wave.
« You too. »
John returns a brief smile before turning away, and immediately the crowd closes behind him.
Figures pass between them.
Then more.
And within only a few seconds, he disappears completely into the sea of people crossing the corridor.
Powder remains still.
Her eyes stay fixed on the spot where she saw him for the last time.
« Yeah… you too… »
This time, the words are nothing more than a whisper.
A breath lost in the surrounding noise.
The smile still lingering on her lips slowly fades.
Simply because it no longer has any reason to remain.
Then she takes a deep breath and resumes walking with the flow of concertgoers.
The pit is already nearly full when Powder enters it.
The air is warmer here. Denser.
Saturated with perfume and sweat. Bodies pressed close together, every movement triggering ten others.
She moves through with difficulty.
Someone brushes past her.
An elbow knocks her arm.
A shoulder presses into her back.
No one apologizes. No one pays attention. It’s not hostile. It’s just… immense.
Around her, voices rise, overlap.
«They’re starting!»
«Did you see the setlist that leaked?»
«Do you think Ekko’s actually going to play his new solo track? The one he mentioned?»
His name circulates everywhere.
Ekko.
She swallows with difficulty.
Phones rise above heads, creating a forest of glowing screens.
She’s wedged between two overexcited groups. One has already started singing a chorus. The others join in. The sound swells, multiplies, becomes almost tribal.
The crowd surges forward.
Her badge taps against her wrist with every movement. She feels the chains against her skin. The warm metal mingling with the heat of the bodies around her.
She’s no longer alone in her memory.
She is here.
In the middle of thousands of people who love him.
Who admire him.
Who know him differently than she does.
Another surge pushes her closer to the stage.
The lights go out all at once.
The world holds its breath.
Then everything explodes.
Spotlights tear through the darkness in colored beams, zigzagging over the crowd, throwing fragments of light across excited faces. Strobes flash like lightning, each pulse of light matching the deep throb of the bass.
And he appears.
Ekko.
He walks onto the stage, every movement amplified by the lights, by the smoke rising from the machines. His arms rise, and the crowd explodes with him, a collective roar that seems to want to move the sky.
Powder feels the floor vibrate beneath her feet, the pressure of the crowd around her, and every body leaping to the same rhythm.
She almost laughs watching the stage.
Her eyes are bright, focused, and already the music fills everything.
It looks like the arrival of a hero.
She doesn’t take her eyes off him, at the crest of this human tide.
Time seems to expand.
Her heart beats as it never has, shaken by the sound, by the adrenaline, by the sight of what he has become.
She is tiny. But she is here.
And the entire universe seems to have been reduced to this stage, to this moment.
«How’s Zaun doing?» he shouts, mic raised toward the crowd.
The response is immediate. Distinct shouts, louder than all the rest, repeating, blending, resonating through the pit.
Behind him, the other members of True Damage appear, lit by the spotlights, and the crowd erupts again.
Every face around her is turned toward the stage.
It’s as if the whole city breathes as one with them.
«It’s been so long since I’ve been back to this city…»
His voice trembles slightly with emotion, but the strength behind it carries everything.
«Three years…»
«And I am so glad to be here tonight!»
The phones rise higher still.
«I hope you’re ready.»
I always have been.
The crowd roars.
And the first note falls.
At first, Powder stays still, rooted in the pit, like a fixed point in a moving ocean.
Around her, bodies jump, sway, press close, pulled in by the music and the light. The fans’ screams rise in waves. The waving arms, the flickering phone screens, the collective breath… all of it envelops her and overwhelms.
And yet, she does nothing.
She stares at him. Ekko. His smile. His fluid movements on stage. And she hopes, desperately, that his gaze will cross hers, even for just a second.
But that moment doesn’t come.
So frustration takes hold, lodging in her chest. Her breathing quickens. Until she lets go.
One.
Two.
Three.
Her mind disconnects.
She starts to move. Slowly at first, then more freely. Her feet strike the floor to the rhythm of the music. Her voice rises, at first tentatively, then with confidence, singing the lyrics she knows by heart, almost echoing the stage. Her voice becomes one more layer of sound, blending with those of the crowd, merging with the shouts and the notes of the music.
Some people notice her.
Heads turn toward her when she sings every word without hesitation.
A girl with green hair grabs her shoulder, laughing.
«You know every word!»
Powder laughs, breathless, without stopping.
«All of them!»
Another raises her arms with her.
«Wait, wait , this is my favorite verse, sing louder!»
Powder shouts the lyrics, her voice vibrating, almost raw with emotion.
«Like this?»
«Yes! That’s it!»
The girls jump around her, their hands gripping each other, laughter bursting to the rhythm of the music.
She doesn’t know them.
They don’t know her.
But for this suspended moment, the music unites them.
Then, in an impulsive surge, Powder takes out her phone. The screen shakes between her fingers from the bass. She switches the camera to selfie mode.
Behind her, the stage explodes with light. Ekko, tiny on screen but immense in reality, crosses the frame in a burst of spotlights.
She films herself singing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
«Zaun!» she shouts toward the lens, her voice swallowed by the crowd.
One of the girls leans into the frame.
«We’re here!»
They both laugh, blinded by the strobe light.
For a few seconds, Powder watches herself on screen. She sees her almost carefree smile.
As if nothing was broken.
Then she turns the camera back toward the stage, awkwardly zooms in on Ekko. The image shakes, blurry, drowned in light.
She keeps singing. Dancing. Laughing.
And for a time, she floats.
She keeps her head above water.
She’s no longer just watching. She is in the current.
But even carried by the movement, she keeps looking for him.
Ekko.
His gaze sweeps the crowd. Slowly. As if trying to take in the whole city in one glance.
He smiles.
He points a finger toward the stands.
He waves to someone in the distance.
The light slides over faces. Hundreds. Thousands.
Over me too.
But his gaze doesn’t stop.
It passes.
Over her.
Through her.
Powder keeps singing. Her lips still form the words. Her body follows the rhythm.
But something in her has gone still.
Because…
There is no suspended moment.
No recognition.
No memory rising to the surface.
Just the stage.
The light.
The crowd.
And her, lost in it.
A silhouette among others.
An autumn leaf swept by the wind.
And tonight, he is exactly where he was always meant to be.
The songs run together without her seeing the time pass.
One song. Then another. Then another still.
The lights change color, the giant screens blaze, silhouettes appear under the spotlights, guests the crowd cheers before they’ve even opened their mouths. Famous voices. Choruses taken up by thousands.
Powder sings until she can no longer feel her throat. She jumps until her legs burn. Her hair clings to her neck, her temples, damp strands pressed against her cheek.
She is exhausted.
Around her, the girls she met keep shouting the lyrics, arms raised toward the stage.
«This is the best night of my life!»
They shake her laughing, still electric.
Onstage, Ekko announces the last song. The thirtieth.
The crowd explodes one final time.
The bass hits harder. The lights become blinding. The entire stadium seems to vibrate as one. Powder sings until she can no longer hear herself. She feels sweat running down her back. Her lungs burn.
It’s too much.
It’s immense.
It’s perfect.
Then the last note stretches.
One second.
Two.
A crackle runs through the speakers. Brief. Almost imperceptible.
And suddenly—
Dark.
The lights cut out all at once.
A brutal silence swallows the music.
The crowd takes a moment to understand. A few screams persist. Applause. Whistles. They wait for an encore. They hold their breath.
But nothing comes back.
No light.
No voice.
No music.
Only the noise beginning to settle.
Powder stands still. Her body still moves slightly, by habit, as if the music continued in her veins. Her chest rises quickly. Strands of hair still cling to her cheek. She doesn’t push them away.
Around her, the girls are still overexcited.
«Oh my god, that was incredible!»
They take her by the shoulders, shaking her gently.
«Hey, you okay?»
Powder blinks. The world comes back in successive layers.
The heat.
The metallic smell of sweat and smoke machines.
The sticky floor beneath her soles.
She nods.
«Yeah…»
Her voice is weaker than expected.
Around them, the crowd is already beginning to disperse. Clusters of people head toward the exits, still a little euphoric. The girls stretch, laugh, comment on every moment as if afraid of losing a fragment of it.
«We’re heading to an after-party with some friends, not far from here!» one of them calls out, smoothing her hair. «You coming?»
Powder barely hesitates.
«No… I still have something planned.»
The girl nods, a little disappointed but without insisting.
«Too bad. You would’ve brought the energy.»
She looks at her for a second, as if weighing something, then adds:
«I loved singing with you. Really.»
Powder manages a smile.
«Me too.»
«Stay in touch?»
She doesn’t even have time to answer before the girl grabs her arm with a disarming spontaneity.
Their two phones touch, and a new contact appears on screen.
Zeri.
Powder looks up.
The girl in front of her smiles, a frank, luminous smile, almost electric.
«Powder? That’s sweet.»
The name floats between them for a second. Light. Intimate.
Then Zeri is already stepping back, pulled away by the flow of departures.
«Take care of yourself, okay?»
And she disappears into the crowd.
Powder stays still.
Just a second.
The stadium empties slowly around her. The shouts become murmurs. Safety lights replace the spotlights.
Her phone is still in her hand. The screen shows the new contact.
She locks the screen.
And finally looks up toward the VIP entrance.
Her steps are quick, decisive. Her heart still beats to the rhythm of the bass.
But once in front of the door, her gesture freezes.
Her badge.
It’s no longer clipped to her wrist.
She felt it against her skin just minutes ago.
A brutal cold runs through her stomach.
She searches her pockets frantically. She has her keys. Her phone. The photo.
But the badge is nowhere to be found.
No. No no no.
She turns out the linings, slides trembling fingers into every seam, as if the plastic might miraculously reappear in her palms.
But nothing.
Her last chance to see him dissolves just like that.
So she turns back, almost running.
The pit is half-empty now. People are leaving.
Powder starts searching the ground. She bends down, moves aside crushed cups, crumpled papers, confetti stuck to the damp floor. She kneels. Her hands sweep the sticky concrete. She almost crawls, indifferent to the looks, indifferent to the soles of shoes grazing her fingers.
She no longer thinks about her dignity.
Only about him.
But there is nothing.
When she comes back to the VIP door, she stands there, motionless, arms at her sides. She stares at the handle as if she could open it through sheer force of will.
Behind it, he is there.
A few meters away, perhaps.
So close.
And infinitely far.
A security guard finally approaches. He tells her to move along.
She doesn’t respond. She keeps staring at the door.
The guard’s hand rests briefly on her shoulder.
She startles.
«I lost my badge… I need to get in… please…»
He shakes his head.
«The meet-and-greets are cancelled. No one’s getting in.»
The words fall without violence.
It’s over.
The music has stopped.
The hall empties.
The lights dim.
She stays there a few seconds longer, unable to accept that everything closed as simply as this.
She takes out her phone and glances at the screen.
11:46 PM.
The number hovers in her mind, without taking hold.
Then she slowly turns away.
She leaves the stadium, crosses the nearly empty corridors, and eventually reaches the parking lot.
Her footsteps sound softly on the concrete.
She walks to her car, legs a little stiff, as if her body moved on its own… while the rest of her remained planted in front of that door.
She locks herself inside.
After a concert, silence always has this particular violence, as if the world shuts off all at once, leaving behind a void too large to bear.
Her hands still tremble as she settles behind the wheel.
She stares at the windshield. The parking lot lights blur in her gaze. She can’t really see anymore. She feels only this pressure in her chest, this blend of humiliation and frustration that has nowhere to go.
So she hits.
One sharp blow against the glove compartment.
The crack is brutal, and the compartment falls open from the impact.
An object slides inside.
Zapper tilts and falls, and the impact is enough.
There’s no safety, she never installed one.
The shot fires.
The detonation explodes through the interior, and the passenger window shatters in a sharp crack.
The sound drills through her eardrums.
Then nothing.
Just a high-pitched ringing in her ears, the acrid smell of chemtech powder… and the cold of the night seeping through the broken window.
Powder stays still.
Her fingers still tremble on the wheel.
She stares at the gaping hole in the window as if all of this were happening to someone else.
Then she lets out a long breath and lets her forehead drop against the wheel.
«Just what I needed.»
The Last Drop’s door opens with a familiar creak, and for a second, the warm air heavy with alcohol and polished wood seems to muffle the noise still humming in Powder’s head.
Inside, everything is in its place.
Vander is behind the counter, busy wiping a glass with an almost meditative focus.
Caitlyn and Silco are seated a little further away, deep in a low conversation that cuts off the moment they see her come in.
Powder doesn’t greet them.
She crosses the room with that strange slowness of those who move forward simply because they must, each step seeming to demand a disproportionate effort of concentration, as if her body had decided to run on low power.
Reaching the counter, she simply places her hands flat on the wood, which immediately marks with thin red smears.
Her knuckles are scraped.
Tiny splinters have opened her skin.
She doesn’t even seem to notice.
Then she lets her forehead rest against the counter, closing her eyes as if the cold, solid surface could absorb what tension she has left.
Vander says nothing. He keeps wiping his glass, but his gaze drops briefly to her hands.
Silco tilts his head.
«I thought you had plans today.»
Powder answers without lifting her head, her words muffled against the wood.
«It’s already over.»
The silence that follows is heavy.
Caitlyn exchanges a look with Vander, then with Silco.
One look is enough.
She gives an imperceptible nod and stands.
She approaches the counter without rushing, stopping beside Powder, close enough for her presence to be felt, but not intrusive.
Then she catches the smell. Her gaze slides to the damaged knuckles, then back to her face.
«Powder… is everything okay?»
The question is asked gently, without pressure.
Powder stays still a few more seconds, so still one might think she’d fallen asleep there, standing against the wood.
Then her voice finally comes out.
«I… accidentally… put a hole in my car window.»
The cloth stops in Vander’s hand.
Caitlyn blinks.
Silco shows only a slight movement of his jaw.
«A hole?»
Powder barely nods against the counter.
«It’s better ventilated now.»
A breath escapes Vander. Not a laugh. More of an awkward attempt to lighten what won’t be lightened.
Caitlyn takes another step and places a hand on Powder’s back.
Powder leans into it, almost without realizing.
Caitlyn feels the tension in her shoulders. She smells the gunpowder too, but says nothing.
Vander sees the gesture.
His gaze softens.
Sadder too.
He comes around the bar with that reassuring heaviness that belongs to him alone. He makes no comment, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t dramatize. He simply takes a clean towel from behind the counter, unfolds it carefully, and places it in front of her.
«Your hands.»
He says nothing more.
Powder takes a moment to understand.
She blinks, slowly drops her gaze.
Her knuckles are split open. Fine cuts stripe her skin, and the blood, quiet but real, still beads at the joints. Tiny splinters of glass remain embedded in the flesh.
She stares at them as if they were just a peripheral detail in a day already too full.
«Oh.»
The sound escapes her almost distractedly.
She bends her fingers, barely flinches when the sting flares.
«That explains why it stings.»
A shrug follows, weak, almost absent.
Caitlyn watches without intervening. Her gaze moves from the damaged hands to the smell still hanging in the air around Powder, then to her too-pale face.
Silco picks up his coat, puts it on without hurrying, then takes a step toward the counter.
He doesn’t look at Powder right away.
His gaze passes first over her hands, the towel Vander placed down, and the red mark spreading.
Then he reaches out.
«Give me the keys.»
Powder takes a second to react.
Then she searches absently through her jacket pocket. The metal clinks faintly as she pulls them out.
She looks at them in her palm.
Then she places them in Silco’s hand.
The contact is brief.
Silco closes his fingers around them with quiet firmness.
«I’ll take care of the repairs.»
He adds, after a brief pause:
«And you’re not driving tonight.»
Then he slides the keys into the inside pocket of his coat.
Caitlyn moves a little closer, the ring hanging around her neck catching the light and throwing back tiny glinting reflections.
«I’ll take you home.»
Powder closes her eyes tighter.
As if the mere idea of driving had become insurmountable.
«Okay.»
Her voice is almost inaudible.
Then Vander comes to rest a large, heavy, warm hand in her hair.
«Have you eaten at least?»
She doesn’t answer.
And that’s worse than a no.
The three adults exchange another look.
This time, there’s no more telepathy.
Just worry.
Caitlyn places a light hand on Powder’s back.
«Come on.»
Powder finally straightens up.
Her forehead leaves a small red mark on the wood.
She doesn’t even notice.
She follows Caitlyn toward the exit.
Before stepping through the door, she murmurs, almost to herself:
«It was supposed to be a good day.»
No one answers.
Night has fully fallen when they leave the Last Drop.
The cold seizes them immediately.
Caitlyn opens the passenger door before Powder has even walked around the vehicle.
«Get in.»
Powder settles in without arguing, and the door closes with a dull thud.
A pang of anxiety tightens her chest.
So she reaches for the seatbelt and pulls it quickly.
The click of the buckle locking immediately reassures her, and the tension in her shoulders releases.
Caitlyn takes the wheel.
The engine starts, and for a few seconds, neither of them speaks.
The lights of Zaun slide across the windshield , yellow, green, trembling.
Powder watches them without seeing them.
Her hands are wrapped in an improvised compress. The fabric is already beginning to turn pink.
Caitlyn sees it.
She says nothing.
She drives with that almost too-perfect precision, movements measured, gaze attentive, as if compensating for two.
«That was Ekko’s concert tonight… Do you want to talk about it?»
The question arrives gently. Without pressure.
Powder shakes her head against the headrest.
«Not really.»
A silence.
Then, after a few seconds:
«There were a lot of people.»
Too many.
Caitlyn understands that’s all she’ll get tonight.
The car stops at a red light.
The scarlet light crosses the interior and briefly colors Powder’s face. She looks even more tired under that artificial hue.
Caitlyn hesitates.
Then she reaches out.
Just to graze her wrist.
Powder doesn’t pull away.
She closes her eyes.
Six years have passed.
But sometimes, in silences like this, Vi’s absence is almost physical, as if she still occupied the space between them.
The light turns green.
Caitlyn withdraws her hand and drives on.
«We’ll get you something warm to eat,» she says simply.
Powder lets out a breath.
«Okay.»
The car continues forward into the night.
The apartment is silent when they enter.
Caitlyn turns on the living room light without a word, and warm light fills the room, revealing a tidy home with a slight controlled disorder that Powder calls balance: a few tools left on the coffee table, a forgotten mug, a sweater thrown over a chair back.
Powder takes off her jacket and lets it drop near the entrance. The smell of burnt powder still rises from the fabric.
Caitlyn quietly picks it up and sets it further away, near a half-open window.
«Come on.»
Her voice is gentle, but leaves little room for hesitation.
In the bedroom, the light is dimmer. Powder sits on the edge of the bed without taking off her shoes. She seems suddenly smaller, shoulders drooping, hands resting on her knees as if they no longer belonged to her.
Caitlyn goes to get the first aid kit she knows by heart. She comes back to sit in front of her.
She doesn’t look around — not at the walls, not at the shelves. She keeps her eyes on Powder’s hands.
«Give me those.»
Powder holds out her fingers without resistance.
When Caitlyn removes the improvised compress, the fabric has stuck to the wounds. She takes her time soaking it with antiseptic before peeling it away, with a precise, delicate movement.
Powder barely reacts.
«This will sting a little.»
«I’ve had worse.»
Caitlyn cleans the cuts one by one. She removes a tiny splinter still lodged in the skin, and sets it on the nightstand.
She still doesn’t lift her eyes.
The bandage unrolls slowly around the knuckles.
«If it hurts you this much… maybe you should take some distance,» she finally says, her voice measured.
Powder shrugs. She doesn’t know if Caitlyn means the wound or him, and she doesn’t ask.
«It doesn’t hurt.»
Caitlyn pulls the fabric a little further.
«No?»
Powder fixes on a point behind her, beyond her shoulder, a vague place where she can rest her gaze without having to meet hers.
«I don’t feel anything for him anymore.»
A pause.
«I just like his music.»
The sentence falls with an almost nonchalant neutrality.
Caitlyn pauses for a fraction. Barely perceptible.
Then she finishes the knot carefully.
«Alright.»
She doesn’t comment.
She still doesn’t look at the walls, puts the supplies away, and closes the kit.
It’s only as she stands that she finally lets her eyes drift… but not high enough to catch anything identifiable. Her gaze stops on the dresser, on the lamp, on the floor. Never on the papers. Never on the faces.
«I’ll make you something to eat.»
Powder nods.
When Caitlyn leaves the room, the silence returns immediately.
Powder sits for a few seconds.
Then her gaze slowly drifts toward the wall in front of her, as if checking that nothing had moved in her absence.
«Just the music,» she murmurs to herself.
But her voice doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
And from the kitchen comes the steady sound of a pot being set on the stove.
More than comforting.
After Caitlyn leaves, the door closes behind her.
A quiet click.
Almost discreet.
Powder stands still for a few seconds in the entryway, fingers still resting on the handle, as if the warmth of Caitlyn’s hand could still come through the cold metal.
Then she lets go.
The apartment falls back into its familiar silence.
She moves toward the living room.
She hesitates to turn on the speaker, to play a True Damage song.
But her heart is too heavy for another immersion, another voice, another memory.
So she settles on the couch.
She turns on the TV distractedly, adjusts the volume once because it’s too loud, then again because it’s almost inaudible, until she finds a bearable level — not to listen, simply to fill the silence.
Background noise.
Just enough to stop thinking.
Her hands, now neatly bandaged, rest on her knees. The white fabric contrasts with the faint traces of powder left under her nails. It barely stings anymore. Or maybe she’s gotten used to it.
Images scroll past without her really registering them — a commercial, then another.
She stares at the screen without seeing it.
Gradually, her eyelids grow heavy. Her head slides against the back of the couch. The television keeps talking, announcing, laughing, but the sound recedes, becomes diffuse, as if coming from another room, another world.
And without even realizing,
she falls asleep.
Morning light slides through the poorly drawn curtains and settles on her face before she is even properly awake.
Powder opens her eyes without startling, with that vague sensation of having slept too deeply and not enough at the same time. The ceiling above her seems strangely distant for a few seconds, then the memories return, without urgency.
She fell asleep on the couch.
The television is off. The apartment is calm.
She lies there a little longer, gaze lost in the familiar cracks of the ceiling, as if her body were waiting for a more convincing reason than habit to make her get up.
Finally, she sits up, absently tucks a strand behind her ear and looks at her bandaged hands with a distant curiosity.
The white fabric is clean.
Yesterday’s gestures already seem blurred.
The bathroom is cold under her bare feet, but she doesn’t pay it attention.
She brushes her teeth staring at her reflection without really seeing it, letting the foam fill her mouth before rinsing.
In the shower, the too-hot water draws a grimace; she adjusts the tap and closes her eyes, letting the heat loosen her still slightly stiff shoulders.
Nothing surfaces.
Not the crowd.
Not the music.
Not him.
Only the steady sound of water against the tiles.
When she gets out of the shower, steam has filled the room and softened the edges of the mirror.
She runs a towel through her hair without hurrying, pulls on an oversized sweater that slips off her shoulder, then jeans she fastens automatically without feeling the fabric against her skin.
She ties her hair with a rough gesture and returns to the living room still carrying the smell of warm dampness.
Her phone vibrates on the coffee table.
She watches it for a few seconds before answering.
Sevika.
«Yeah.»
Her voice is a little rough, but steady.
On the other end, Sevika doesn’t bother with preamble.
«Your car will be ready this afternoon. I’ll pick you up in two hours. We’re going to work together.»
Powder leans against the back of the couch, eyes lost on the wall in front of her.
«Okay.»
A brief silence.
«You sound tired.»
«I just slept badly.»
A slight exhale, almost skeptical.
«Two hours.»
The call ends.
Powder lets the phone drop onto the table without a sound. She walks to the small cabinet near the sink, opens the compartmentalized pill organizer, and slides two tablets into her palm.
They rest there, tiny, harmless in appearance.
She swallows them with a mouthful of water.
The bitter taste clings to her tongue.
She comes back to sit on the couch, folds one leg under her and, more out of reflex than desire, unlocks her phone. Her thumb hovers over the apps, then presses the black icon.
TikTok opens in a burst of light and sound.
She scrolls.
A video starts immediately. A girl filmed vertically, eyes too bright.
«Guys… tell me this isn’t real. We just found out that True Damage member Ekko has been reported missing since last night after his concert in Zaun.»
The world around her seems to keep turning, but something slows.
Her fingers tighten on the phone.
She doesn’t blink.
The screen shows images of the stadium.
The spotlights.
The stage.
The crowd in motion.
Then a red banner appears at the bottom of the video: Disturbing Disappearance.
She replays the video. The sound seems strange, as if filtered through a layer of water. Each word arrives with a slight delay, yet everything resonates louder inside.
«…the concert was reportedly interrupted after a technical issue. The VIP meet-and-greets were cancelled. The team claims to have lost all contact with him around 11:47 PM.»
11:47 PM.
Her gaze drops to the time at the top of her screen.
Yesterday.
The crackle.
The lights cutting out.
The badge slipping from my fingers.
The corridor.
John.
A contraction moves through her chest. Her breath shortens, as if she had just fallen too quickly into a void.
She breathes in, breathes out. The breath catches. She tries to regain control, but her hands tremble.
A second video plays automatically.
Archival footage.
Clips from the concert.
His enormous smile under the spotlights.
And suddenly, she freezes. She feels a spasm in her stomach. The smile that was luminous in the video burns in her memory.
She stops the scroll with a sharp gesture. Her own reflection trembles on the black screen.
She doesn’t cry.
She doesn’t speak.
But an unfamiliar sensation settles in her chest, a cold, hollow void that grows, drawing everything around it inward. Her heart beats faster. Her fingers search for something to hold onto.
The phone vibrates again.
A news alert notification.
She doesn’t open it. She stays still.
And her eyes fix on the black of the screen.