The rain hadn't stopped.
Two days after the gallery fire, the scent of smoke still clung to the air like grief that refused to leave. Jalen stood at the edge of the charred ruins, his umbrella barely shielding him from the downpour. The police had ruled it an electrical accident—but his gut said otherwise.
Kora hadn't spoken much since that night. She wore silence like a second skin now—quiet, measured, always listening. And her sketches had changed. Gone were the smooth lines and hopeful colors. Now her pages were filled with fractured faces, shadowed corners, and words written backward, as if her soul was speaking in code.
Jalen looked down at the damp notebook in his hand. It was the last one Kora had left behind before the fire. Hidden between the pages was a name neither of them had spoken in years.
*Damon Trent.*
The man who'd disappeared after stealing the original manuscripts. The same man who once called himself *Jalen's friend*—before betrayal stained the ink between them.
He turned as Kora approached from behind, her boots splashing in shallow puddles. Her hood was pulled tight, but her eyes met his with an intensity he hadn't seen since they were kids hiding truth in journal pages.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "It wasn't just a fire."
She looked at the burned structure, then back at him. "Then we find him. Damon. We find the ink. And this time—no one walks away clean."