I returned to my apartment, the familiar creak of the door a stark contrast to Ruby's warm chaos. The place had been a wreck—shattered mugs from my last rage-fuelled outburst, splintered chair legs, broken vases, a half-broken table, and papers strewn like fallen leaves from half-finished stories.
But now, everything gleamed replaced: new ceramic mugs stacked neatly—black, no handles, just like old ones—a sturdy teak chair in the corner, fresh notebooks aligned on shelves bought with my writing earnings. My writing empire—had padded my bank account enough for this modest rebirth-slash-rebirth. No more cracks mirroring my fractured self.
After my talk with Ruby—her hard "yes" still echoing, sealing our pact against The Bureau—I needed to integrate the plan properly. Phase One demanded precision, which I am going to achieve—but I need some time, and some more materials for research.
