The bass pulses gently in the distance. Neon lights flash off rain-soaked windows. Noah slumped at the far end of the bar, elbows over a glass of whiskey, already a few rounds into it. His eyes are half-closed, unfocused—not just from the booze, but from the heaviness of memories.
He notices Kai's laugh, how his hand would brush Noah's wrist like it was something—the touch, the quiet, the flames. He notices the painting he sent, how Kai never wrote back. He notices Cherry, crying, "Where is my Noah dada?"
Another picture. Another recollection.
And then—
Ryn stands beside him, resting with that same easy charm.
Ryn:
"Looks like you could use better company."
Noah says nothing. Only nods. Drinks.
One becomes two. Then five.
Cut to an expensive, upstairs private room, dimly lit. The type of space that has secrets clinging to the walls.
Noah is stretched out on the bed, almost unconscious, mumbling broken thoughts—Kai…don't go away…
