"Are you sure you don't want to come inside?" Estelle asked as they reached the restroom. The line stretched down the hallway—fans chatting, heels clicking, the faint echo of commentary from the court.
"I'll be fine here," Rosette said with a small smile. "Go ahead. I'll wait."
Estelle hesitated, scanning the crowd. "There are a lot of people walking around. Are you sure—"
"I'm not going anywhere," Rosette interrupted gently, her tone teasing. "You worry too much."
Estelle sighed. "All right. I'll be quick." She squeezed her sister's hand before disappearing into the restroom.
Left alone, Rosette leaned lightly against the wall, her fingers brushing the cool surface. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and sweat, and all around her the crowd buzzed—footsteps, laughter, the hum of excitement.
She listened.
Snatches of conversation drifted by:
"Man, Dranred's off his game tonight."
"Drake's killing it out there!"
"The Falcons might actually win this one!"
Rosette bit her lip, her expression unreadable. She knew those voices didn't understand what was really happening out there. The Falcons' strategy—James's strategy—was brilliant, and it showed. But every cheer for Drake, every complaint about Dranred, felt like a small sting.
Because even if she couldn't see him, she could feel his struggle in the way the crowd shifted—the disappointment, the held breaths.
"Come on, Red…" she whispered under her breath, her fingers tightening around her cane. "Don't give up yet."
"Miss, are you alone? Who are you waiting for?"
The voice came too close. Rosette stiffened as she sensed three figures blocking her way. The air around her shifted—warm breath, the faint scent of sweat and alcohol.
She took a cautious step back, but a rough hand caught her arm.
"Looks like she's blind, bro," one of them snickered. She heard a hand wave in front of her face, the air brushing her cheek. Their laughter followed.
"Come with us," another said. "It's not safe to stand here alone."
"I'm fine," Rosette said firmly, though her voice trembled. "Let go of me before I call security."
"Security?" the man mocked. "How will you call them? You don't even know where to run."
"Don't touch me!" she snapped, jerking her arm away. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The smell of cologne and asphalt blurred into the memory of that night—her mother's body collapsing beside her, the echo of a gunshot—
"If you don't leave, I'll scream!"
But they only laughed.
That was when another voice cut through the noise. Low, calm, and dangerous.
"She said don't touch her."
The laughter stopped.
Dranred stepped forward, the brim of his cap hiding his face, his jacket zipped up to his chin. He caught the man's wrist before it could reach Rosette again, his grip firm and deliberate.
"You really can't tell when someone's saying no?" he said quietly. "Or do you just like learning the hard way?"
The men froze. Then one of them noticed the approaching security guards behind Dranred.
"Let's go, man," he muttered. The three backed off and disappeared into the crowd.
Rosette exhaled shakily. "T-Thank you… I—"
The man in front of her hesitated.
"It's you, isn't it?" she whispered, recognizing the rhythm of his breathing, the weight of his silence.
Dranred froze. He hadn't expected her to know.
"Are you okay?"
"What are you doing here? Why are you alone?" Dranred asked, his brows knitting. "Aren't Estelle or James with you?"
"Red?" Rosette's voice softened with surprise. Her hand reached for his arm, and he glanced down at her touch.
"It's me," he said, a faint smile crossing his face. "I thought you'd forgotten me. But tell me—what are you doing out here by yourself?"
"Ah… Estelle's in the restroom. She'll be out soon."
"I see. That's good—"
He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Estelle emerging from the doorway. Her expression shifted the instant she saw them together. Without a word, she rushed over, grasping Rosette's arm and pulling her gently but firmly away from him.
Before Dranred could speak, another figure appeared—James.
Their eyes met, and the air seemed to tighten.
"Let's go," James said curtly, taking Rosette's hand. "The second half's about to start."
He didn't spare Dranred a single glance, as if the man standing before him didn't exist.
But as they turned to leave, Dranred spoke, voice low but steady.
"James. We need to talk."
James froze, then slowly looked back over his shoulder. "There's nothing to talk about."
"There is," Dranred replied. "We need to clear things up—everything."
"There's nothing to clear up." James's tone was sharp, deliberate. "But if you really want to talk…"
He paused, his gaze hardening.
"Drop the game. Then maybe I'll think about it."
The space between them crackled with silence. Around them, the noise of the gym—whistles, cheers, the pounding of drums—faded into a dull roar. For a brief moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world, standing on opposite sides of something neither could cross.
Then the buzzer sounded, splitting the tension.
Neither man spoke. James turned away first, guiding his sisters toward the crowd.
Dranred watched them go, the weight of unspoken words pressing heavy in his chest.
"James," Rosette said softly, almost in protest. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard.
"If you can't do it, then we have nothing to talk about," James said flatly.
"Why are you treating Dranred like that?" she asked, her voice trembling with confusion. She remembered how close they used to be—how they used to laugh, celebrate each other's wins, share every victory like family. When had all that changed? When had bitterness replaced friendship?
"Stay out of this, Rosette," James said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This is between adults."
He took her hand and tugged gently but firmly. "Let's go."
Rosette followed, though her heart ached as she turned her head slightly, trying to catch one last glimpse of Dranred. She couldn't see his expression, but she could imagine the hurt in it—the quiet sadness she knew too well.
Dranred didn't say a word. He simply watched them walk away, the noise of the crowd muffled beneath the weight of his thoughts. James's challenge echoed in his mind: Drop the game. He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the court's entrance. If that's what it would take to make things right, maybe—just maybe—it was time to face the past head-on.