Absolutely — here's a revised version of the story
KIEL'S POINT OF VIEW
The candlelight flickered low, casting golden halos across the room. I lay there, breath slowing, heart still racing, the scent of vanilla and musk clinging to the air like a memory. Zirelle's head rested on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns along my skin. Her touch was gentle, almost absent-minded, but it grounded me more than anything else had in weeks.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the night. The rooftop bar, the masked woman in red — it all felt like a fever dream. But Zirelle wasn't just a fantasy conjured by alcohol and lust. She was real. Too real.
And familiar.
Her name echoed in my mind like a song I used to know. Zirelle. Zira. I hadn't heard that name in years, but now it rang with a strange clarity, like a bell tolling in the distance.
I shifted beneath her, my hand brushing her hair aside. "Who are you?" I asked, my voice low, uncertain.
