The hall emptied slowly.
Voices faded, footsteps echoed, bills disappeared into pockets.
Smoke hung like a gray cloud in the air, thick, heavy.
The neon lights flickered, as if they longed to finally go out.
The stomping of the crowd had fallen silent, only the metallic clinking somewhere in the back remained, like an echo.
Lina stood at the edge, her heart beating much too fast.
Giulia had disappeared – somewhere among the rows, talking to one of the men, laughing too loudly, too harshly.
Lina felt out of place, too clean, too quiet for this world.
Her shoes stuck to the floor, where dried blood gleamed.
Then she saw him.
Alaric.
He sat in a dark corner, on a rickety bench.
His hood half-covered his face, his hands rested heavily on his knees.
His lip was split, knuckles open, dried blood drawing lines across his skin.
His shoulders rose and fell, irregularly, tired.
For the first time, he didn't seem like someone untouchable.
Not untouchable. Not cool.
