CYAN

The first thing I felt was the bill. My body was handing me a very long, very expensive invoice for services rendered over the last twelve hours.

It started at the base of my skull, a sharp, rhythmic drumming that suggested a tiny person was trying to hammer their way out of my forehead, and then it trickled down my neck, settling into a dull, heavy ache in my shoulders.

I blinked. My eyelashes felt heavy, like they’d been dipped in honey.

The view was unconventional. I was looking at a vast expanse of black, perforated leather. It was cold against my cheek, smelled faintly of expensive citrus and old money, and was definitely not my bed.

I was lying sideways on the backseat of the car, my pink hair a tangled mess across my vision. There was a damp patch near my mouth. I decided, with the remaining dignity I possessed, not to investigate its origin.

Memory is a funny thing when you’ve been drinking. It doesn’t come back like a movie; it comes back like a bag of spilled puzzle pieces.

Piece one: Leaving Cassian’s office yesterday.

Piece two: The property consultant. The salon plans. The Numbers. The numbers were good. I liked the numbers. They were solid.

Piece three: The decision that a Monday evening was actually a Friday in disguise.

Piece four: The club. The strobe lights. The third, or was it the fifth?, negroni.

Piece five: Reginald.

I remember Reginald appearing under the neon lights of the club like a disappointed guardian angel. He had that expression on his face, the one where his eyebrows do a very specific, polite twitch that says, "Master Cyan, we are leaving before you try to buy the DJ’s laptop."

There was a vague memory of being carried. A negotiation at the car door. I think I tried to argue that I was a bird and didn’t need a seatbelt. Apparently, I lost that debate, because here I was. In the car. Still alive, technically.

I didn’t feel regret. Regret is for people who have plans they’re worried about ruining. I just felt physics. This was the hangover. It wasn’t a punishment; it was just the inevitable result of gravity and gin.

I decided to sit up. This was my first mistake of the day.

My ambition far exceeded my current physical capacity. I bolted upright, forgetting for a split second that I was in a confined space.

THWACK.

My forehead met the roof of the car with a sound that was surprisingly loud, like a melon hitting a sidewalk. The pain was immediate. Sharp. A brand-new addition to the inventory of my suffering.

"That was stupid," I whispered to the leather.

I fell back down. The backseat received me again, merciful and soft. I lay there, staring up at the gray fabric of the car ceiling. It was much closer than a regular ceiling. I liked that. It felt contained. Like a little padded cell where the world couldn’t get to me.

I turned my head toward the window.

Outside, the sky was that weird, indecisive shade of blue-gray that only happens at dawn. It’s the color of a day that hasn’t committed to being good or bad yet.

We were parked in the driveway of the mansion. I knew it without looking because Reginald is nothing if not consistent. He brings me home. Always. Even when I’m being a bird.

The front windows were cracked a few inches, letting in a draft of sharp, biting morning air that tasted like frost. There was a heavy wool blanket draped over me. I stayed there, curled into a ball, watching the light change.

I didn’t want to get out. Not because I was tired, but because the backseat was quiet.

And lately, quiet was a rare commodity. Inside my head, the noise was usually at a deafening volume, a chaotic radio station playing ten songs at once.

But here, in the half-light, with the smell of leather and the cold air, it was just... a pause.

As the silence stretched, the dream came back.

It had been visiting me for three days now. Same dream. Same feeling. In it, I’m floating. Not falling, that would be too easy. I’m just suspended in the air, drifting like a balloon that’s lost its string. It sounds peaceful, right? It isn’t. It’s wrong. It’s the feeling of a body that’s forgotten it has weight. Like weight was just a temporary hobby I’ve finally given up on.

In the dream, I always look down. I see myself. I’m lying on a bed, or a floor, or the grass, and I’m so still. It’s the kind of stillness that happens when something has stopped working for good.

And the worst part? I don’t panic. I don’t try to scream or fly back down into my skin. I just watch. I’m comfortable with the distance.

I know what it means. I’ve seen this version of myself before. It’s a warning. My brain is trying to tell me that the emptiness I’ve been feeling isn’t just a mood; it’s a hole that’s getting bigger.

Other people have "goals." I watch them sometimes, Noah, or the property consultants, or the people in the gym.

They talk about five-year plans and building empires and growing old. They move toward things.

Even Cassie has his goal. To kill those who wronged him.

I have the boutique. I have the money. I have the salon project. But it doesn’t feel like I’m moving toward anything. It feels like I’m just doing things so I don’t have to stop.

Because stopping is when the dream becomes real.

It’s irritating. Truly. I’m not supposed to be a person who has "feelings" or "introspective moments." I’m the guy who drives the car too fast, wears the pink hair, and punches the arrogant doctor in the face because he deserved it.

I’m the beautiful, chaotic son of the Prime Minister. I don’t do journals. I don’t do therapy.

But lately, the noise is winning. That’s why I went back to XUM. That’s why I found Noah. That’s why I’m here. Because Cassian’s presence is the only thing that turns the volume knob down to a level I can survive.

Tap. Tap.