Julian Cross felt the humiliation from the party like a physical wound.
He had been laughed at.
Again.
His priceless watch, a symbol of his status, was now just a dead weight on his wrist.
He knew, with the kind of bone-deep certainty that only pure, obsessive hatred can provide, that the ghost was responsible.
Vane.
That quiet, worthless, book-sniffing nobody.
He sat in his sterile, ridiculously expensive bedroom, staring at his phone.
He scrolled through his messages, his thumb jabbing at the screen with angry, violent energy.
He saw the texts from his father, cold and dismissive.
*Your little party was a waste of resources and time.*
He saw the mockery from the bounty hunters in their stupid group chat.
*He broke his watch! The little coward broke his watch and ran!*
His status, the very foundation of his identity, was being dismantled piece by piece.
And it was all Vane's fault.
Then, he saw her name.
Clara.
He scrolled through their one-sided message history.
