"Clara."
His voice cut through the noise of students, low and steady. She didn't have to turn around to know it was Cyra. Even in the daylight, he's a shadow… dark hair, dark jacket, and even darker eyes.
She keeps walking.
"You're making a mistake" he calls, now just a few steps behind her.
"Am I?" Clara mutters coldly. There's precision on her steps.
"Emor isn't your fight." His tone is calm but she can hear the warning in it.
"It is now," she answers without looking at him, her grip tightens on the textbooks that she has clenched to her chest.
"He hurt her Cyra. And if no one else is going to stop him…"
"You think you are?— You think you can?"
She doesn't answer, doesn't have to. Her silence is sharper than words. She picks up her pace but he is still only a step behind.
He reaches for her arm, fingers wrapping around her wrist. The books slip from her arms and hit the stone pathway with a sharp thud. Neither move to pick them up.
A bright blue spark snaps where his fingers touched her gentle skin, a crackle that both of them are accustomed to by now
—but her heart still skips at the contact.
"Let go." She demanded. She refused to meet his eyes, to let them soften her with their onyx intensity. Her jaw clenched.
"Not until you listen." He steps closer, close enough for her to smell his cologne, fresh cut cedar wood and maple leaves.
"If you don't let go, someone is going to notice" Clara warned.
"Then stop fighting me. You know these powers react to emotion."
University students pass around them, but no one pays attention… they're hidden in plain sight.
She tilts her chin up, defiantly…. still facing away from him and unwavering.The wind sweeps between them, brushing her skirt against her legs.
"You're not ready for him," Cyra murmurs, leaning in close, his breath barely louder than the wind. "—And you know it.
She finally turns to face him. His guarded expression softens, just slightly, and the shift makes her chest tighten. That mask he wears, which keeps him untouchable, unreadable, slips for a fraction of a second.
"You don't get to decide what I'm ready for." Her necklace glimmers with a soft glow in the sunlight, catching Cyra's gaze. His jaw tightens. He's hiding something.
She touches her necklace without thought, outlining the pendent with her index finger and thumb.
"What are you hiding? Her question is loaded but she asks it meekly, not entirely sure that she wants the answer.
Cyra remains silent. A breeze tossles his raven black hair but he doesn't move. Doesn't brush it away in the usual way that makes Clara's heart skip. He just stands with the solemn silence and an expression that is almost pleading now.
"You're scared of him," she says softly.
"I'm scared of what he'll do to you," he admits, voice low, dangerous.
"—What do you think the most powerful crime boss would do with a girl with these powers?" He picks up her wrist as her fingertips sparked angrily. "—I'm afraid… for you!"
Her pulse quickens. It's rare to hear him speak with that kind of honesty, and seeing the cracks in his armor made her chest ache.
She steps closer, their bodies nearly touching. "You think I forgot who you are too? You're a criminal. A liar. And yet…" She lets the words trail off, but her gaze stays on his.
"And yet?" he prompts, voice a velvety whisper.
"And yet I'm still asking for your help."
He studies her like he's memorizing every flicker of her expression, every gust of wind that moves her hair.
He reaches up, fingers brushing against her jaw as he tucks a strand behind her ear. The simple touch sends a shiver down her spine. Clara closes her eyes.
"You shouldn't trust me."
"I don't."
Her words are sharp and so are her eyes as she flashes them open, even with their intensity their voices are soft.The breeze swirls around them, making her hair whip like golden silk. He doesn't let go of her wrist.
Instead, his thumb strokes the pulse point there once, slow and deliberate. The blue spark between them dances sharper, almost sizzling.
"Clara…" His voice is dark now, almost a growl.
She leans in, lips so close to his that she can feel his breath against her skin. "You either help me or you're against me too."
"This isn't a game, Clara," he says quietly. His eyes, dark and unreadable—hold hers like they're both teetering on the edge of something neither of them asked for.
For a split second, she thinks he's going to kiss her, maybe drag her away against her will.
Instead, he let's her go.
She exhales sharply, bending to pick up her books—then stops when she sees his expression shift.
"Clara."
There's a tension in his voice now, sharp and lethal. She straightens slowly, following his gaze.
Students move obliviously around them. Talking and laughing with a palpable energy accompanying the distant toll of a bell tower, the clangs cutting through the din like a heartbeat. Bicycles whirred past, sneakers slapped pavement, and the smell of roasted coffee drifted from a nearby café, thick and warm against the cool breeze. But Cyra's jaw is tight, eyes fixed on something beyond the crowd.
Clara's finger tips popped and snapped defensively, her powers reacting automatically to his shift in mood. Her moderate annoyance, now a tight focus, reacting to the heightened cortisol levels her body sensed in Cyra's… always in tune.
She grasped her necklace instinctively.
Without hesitation, he stepped in front of her, his silence speaking louder than any threat, a shield forged of instinct and unwavering resolve.
A breeze lifted a single bronze leaf that fluttered and danced in front of them. It spun around Clara's ankle and clung to her shoe like it was reacting to the electric current surrounding her— no, coming from within her.
"They're here."