Andres dreamed in music.
But it wasn't beautiful.
In his dream, Thana was playing alone on a grand stage. The piece was slow, discordant. Blood pooled beneath the pedals. Her eyes never left his — even as her fingers fell off, one by one, onto the keys.
He woke with sweat on his back and a scream caught in his throat.
It wasn't the first time.
He got up before dawn and poured himself a drink — no ice, no hesitation. He stared at his reflection in the window, watching the lights of the city blink through his hollow expression.
He'd always known how to compartmentalize.
But Thana didn't fit into a box.
She was seeping into the cracks of him — not just a muse, not just a mark. She was infecting the narrative. Changing the tempo.
And worst of all — he liked it.
He needed to anchor himself.
He pulled out his notes. The elegy was progressing — but the structure was off. The fictionalized version of her wasn't matching the real thing anymore. "Lydia Vale" was cold, predictable. Thana was... dangerous.
For the first time in his career, Andres considered writing something true.
And that terrified him.