The first thing I felt was cold. Not the kind that lives in the air, but the kind that seeps into your bones—quiet, heavy, merciless.
I opened my eyes to darkness. The smell of smoke still lingered, mixed with something sharp—gunpowder, and fear. My head throbbed as I pushed myself upright, every movement sending pain through my ribs. The room around me was unrecognizable. The lamp was shattered, the curtains burned, the window gaped open to the night.
"Rafael?"
The sound of my own voice startled me. It cracked on his name.
I got to my feet, unsteady, gripping the edge of the bed for balance. My hands were shaking. Blood—dry, flaking—streaked my fingers. I didn't know if it was mine or his.
"Rafa?" I tried again, louder this time. No answer.
Outside, rain whispered against the broken window. The world had gone still. The chaos from the night before—the gunfire, the shouting—was gone as if the storm had swallowed it whole.
