"What are you doing here?"
"And more importantly, why are you smoking?"
Her voice was sharp. Cold. Familiar. A crisp, almost accusatory tone that sliced right through my daze.
I blinked once, looked into her deep violet eyes—hypnotic, almost surreal—then gave her a slow, unreadable glance, letting the smoke drift lazily from my lips. "Nothing. Just minding my own business."
"That's not what I asked," she snapped, a hint of steel in her tone. "Why are you smoking? And why are you on the rooftop? Both are clearly against school rules."
"Oh? Good to know," I said casually, taking another slow drag.
She narrowed her eyes, her gaze as piercing as an icy wind. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Yes, ma'am. Loud and clear." I gestured vaguely toward the food beside me. "Just came here to eat. Once I'm done, I'll be on my way."
"Then what's with the cigarette?" she asked, folding her arms. "It's not exactly part of your lunch, is it?"
I shrugged, flicking the ash off the edge of the roof. "Just something I picked up. Helps me… distract myself."
"Oh?" She raised a brow, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "And how exactly does that work?"
"Hmm…" I looked up, watching the smoke curl into the air, a fleeting, ghost-like rope. "Don't really have the right words in my dictionary to explain."
She stared at me for a second longer, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. Then she said something I didn't expect.
"Does it help distract you from the loss you had against Leon?"
What the hell is she on about? That was an odd, almost personal question.
"Not really," I said flatly. "Why would it? Or… are you the one bothered by something like that?"
She let out a soft sigh—deep and weary—and took a few steps forward. Her shoes clicked gently against the rooftop tiles, a quiet rhythm against the distant city hum. The wind brushed past us, and her long white hair fluttered behind her like ribbons in the breeze, giving her that same ethereal, delicate look she always carried—like someone too beautiful to be real, too fragile to touch.
"Yes," she finally admitted, her voice quieter now, almost a confession. "You could say that. I came up here hoping to clear my head… but I still haven't. Not since I lost to Yelena in the last combat evaluation."
After a pause, she spoke again, her tone now tinged with a raw honesty.
"You know, Edward… when I watched your match, I felt something I didn't expect. Envy."
She let out a small, bitter breath. "You stood there—fighting against the odds.
Trading blows with someone far stronger, holding your ground, even overwhelming them for a moment. It was reckless. Brave. And yet… it didn't end with a victory. Just another bitter taste."
Her eyes lowered, a shadow passing over them.
"And yet… you still tried to chase it, didn't you?"
"Yeah," she continued, her voice a little steadier now, a fragile defiance hardening her tone. "I faced her with everything I had. Trained like a maniac. Told myself this would be it—that just this once, I'd get one small win to balance out the mountain of losses." She looked away, lips pressing together. "But—"
I didn't need her to finish. I already knew how that story ends. It was a familiar narrative of unfulfilled hopes, of the crushing reality of falling short.
She let out a shaky sigh. "I don't even know what's gotten into me. Why am I telling you all this?"
"It's not a problem, Miss Mooncrest." I took a long drag from the cigarette, the bitter smoke a comforting presence. "Sometimes, you don't need someone close to talk to. Sometimes, a stranger is enough."
She turned her eyes toward me—violet and still too sharp for someone so fragile-looking. "But you're not a stranger, Edward."
I raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. "Then what do you call someone you barely know?"
She looked like she wanted to say something, but no words came. Maybe she already knew. That this—whatever this was—was exactly what we were.
"Yep, that's how it is."
I stood up and began casually packing my things. "Well, my time's up. I'll leave you to enjoy your personal space."
I slung the strap of my bag over my shoulder, pausing with a slight glance back. "Still… it was a fun chat, Miss Mooncrest. Even if it was short."
"It's Selene," she said, her voice quieter now.
"Yeah?"
"Stop calling me by my last name," she said, looking away, the wind ruffling her hair. "My friends call me Selene."
"Good for them," I said, my smile lingering, unreadable as ever.
She didn't respond at first. Then, her voice came again, firm this time. "And also, please stop smoking. It's not good for your health. And if I catch you doing it again, I will report you. Okay?"
I let out a low chuckle, a thin cloud of smoke escaping my lips. "That's a hard request, you know. But… let's just say I'll try."
"Really?"
"Yep," I said, holding up two fingers like a mock salute. "I swear on my father's name."
I took one last drag, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it under my boot.
"Right," I said, a faint smirk touching my lips. "Well, Selene, remember not to take too long. The rooftop is against the rules, after all."
With that playful warning, I turned and walked toward the door. My steps were unhurried, light. I slipped through the door and left the roof behind. The quiet click of the door closing was the only answer she got.
And just like that, another day's events came to a close—
Not with any grand revelation, not with any progress or plan on my part.
Lately, it feels like the number of people I interact with is growing.
Elijah, Kevin, Selene... even the escaped middleman.
Does that mean I'm still part of the story?
Or just a leftover character drifting through someone else's plot, a ghost in a narrative that's not my own?
What I need is more than just idle conversation.
I need something hidden. A clue. A flinch. A spark.
Anything.
Click.
Amid those thoughts, I found myself back in my room,
idly playing with the revolver I'd retrieved from the dirty clothes in my bag. The weight felt familiar, comforting.
I pressed the cold muzzle to my temple
and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Just a dry, hollow sound.
Of course—
the gun was empty.
I'm not that stupid. I never am.
...Or am I?
I muttered, almost amused, as I began loading the bullets.
One by one, I placed them back into the cylinder, the metallic thud a quiet drumbeat in the silent room.
When it was full, I spun it once.
No theatrics. No drama. Just quiet metal-on-metal, the weight of it shifting in my hand.
I raised it again to the side of my head.
Finger on the trigger.
Hammer pulled back.
One twitch—
and there'd be a hole in my skull. A real one. A fatal one. Even an awakened body wouldn't survive a shot like that at this range.
So why?
Why would I even consider pulling it?
Am I suicidal?
Am I really that weak-willed—so fragile that a few troublesome thoughts could push me this far?
The answer is simple.
No.
I'm not suicidal.
And yet—
I'm still pulling the trigger.
You want to know why?
Let's find out together.
Bang.
-------
Author's Note:
Sorry for the delay in chapters lately! I've been constantly on the move, currently searching for a new apartment. Turns out, it's taking a bit longer than I originally expected. Because of that, the upcoming chapters might be delayed or come out with a few days' gap.
Still, I'm squeezing out time whenever I can and making arrangements in the background. Thank you so much for sticking with the story despite everything—it really means a lot!