The club throbbed with bass-heavy music, the kind that blurred thought and numbed pain. Flashing lights cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and perfume. Amara leaned heavily against the bar counter, a glass of something burning between her fingers.
Her lipstick was slightly smudged, her hair wild from dancing too long and too hard. She didn't care. She didn't want to care.
That was the point of running away.
No more Lucian.
No more Nico.
No more Isla.
No more lies.
She was done with destiny. Done with curses. Done with whatever the hell her life was becoming.
"Another," she muttered, sliding her empty glass forward. The bartender hesitated, eyes flicking to her flushed cheeks, but poured the drink anyway.
"Pace yourself," a voice came from beside her — male, calm, smooth.
She turned slowly, already annoyed. "Excuse you?"
The guy beside her raised both hands, a disarming smile on his lips. "Just an observation. You look like someone running from something."
He was tall, dressed in black with sleeves rolled up and a few buttons undone. His dark hair was tousled in that annoyingly perfect way, and his pale blue eyes seemed almost silver under the pulsing club lights. Not quite normal.
"You a therapist?" she asked.
"No," he chuckled. "Just someone good at reading people. And right now, you're screaming 'crash-and-burn.'"
She smirked faintly and lifted her drink. "You're not wrong."
He gently took it from her hand and replaced it with a cold water bottle from behind the counter. "Drink this instead. You'll thank me in the morning."
Amara rolled her eyes but took it anyway. "I'm Amara."
"Rolan," he replied with a nod. "Rolan King."
"That name sounds fake."
He tilted his head. "Only if you're bad with faces. Want to test me?"
She snorted. "Cute."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was…strange. Still. A beat where she felt oddly safe — for no reason at all.
"Have you ever felt like your life doesn't belong to you?" she asked suddenly.
Rolan blinked, caught off guard. "That's a heavy drunk thought."
"I'm serious," she said, turning to face him fully. "You ever feel like…you're stuck in something you can't change? Like someone already decided how you'd end long before you ever started?"
Rolan gave her a slow look. "Where's this coming from?"
Amara laughed softly, bitterly. "You really want to know?"
"Try me."
She turned back to her drink, spinning it slowly with her fingers. "I'm cursed. Literally. I'm supposed to die—over and over again—because I fell in love with someone I shouldn't have. Every time I get close to him, I die. And my best friend? She's the witch who's keeping the curse alive. And my brother? Not even my real brother. He's in love with me. And apparently… he's supposed to be the one to kill me this time around."
Rolan stared at her.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't cruel — more like amused disbelief. "Alright, that's a solid plot twist. You write scripts?"
"I knew you'd think I'm a crazy drunk," she muttered, downing the last of her water.
"I mean, you are drunk," he said. "But I've heard weirder."
She slid off the barstool, wobbling a little. "I should go."
"Where to?"
"I don't… I don't really have a place here yet. I just moved. Kind of… ran."
"Ran where?"
"Here."
Rolan studied her for a long moment. Then, calmly: "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't get any ideas."
He smirked. "I don't need ideas. Just decency. I'll drive you. You can crash at my place. Guest room."
She hesitated.
"You trust me?" he asked.
"No," she said plainly. "But I don't trust anyone anymore, so that's not new."
"Fair enough."
She let him guide her toward the exit. And as the doors of the club closed behind them, Amara didn't realize her fate had just followed her out.