Evening melted across the horizon, staining the sky in bruised purples and dusky corals. Shapeless clouds sailed overhead, swallowing the last of the sun and leaving behind a peach-washed glow that bled along the contours of the skyline.
That mesmerising view stretched endlessly beyond the tall paneled window of the hotel suite. Distant hills were smudged by mist, and foreign city towers rose like mirrored monoliths, reflecting the dying light in fractured amber and silver.
Ryul stood motionless before it all, half-shrouded in the pale twilight. One hand rested loosely on the sill, the other buried in his pocket.
The breeze that slipped in through the partially open window played with his hair, lifting and releasing fine strands that danced briefly across the phantom scars carved into his cheek–those pale traces flashing into visibility with each movement of hair, only to disappear again.
