The storm outside had begun hours ago, a steady drizzle at first, then a full curtain of rain that streaked down the windows and turned the streetlights into blurred smears of gold. The sound of it filled the apartment, a constant tapping against glass that seemed to echo the beating of Luke's heart.
He sat at the small kitchen table, the one piece of furniture he had bought brand new instead of scavenging from yard sales. His hands were clasped tightly together, the knuckles pale, his eyes fixed on the unopened beer bottle in front of him. He hadn't even thought about drinking it. It was just something to look at, something to keep his eyes from staring too long at the empty doorway.
His shift had ended earlier than expected. The foreman had waved him off, saying he'd earned a break. Luke had walked home with a plan forming in his head. He would surprise her. They would eat together, talk, laugh. He would tell her again how much she meant to him, how everything he did was for them. Maybe, just maybe, he could bridge the distance that had grown between them.
But when he opened the door, the silence had struck him like a fist. No music humming from her phone. No faint aroma of food cooking. No greeting, no smile, no warmth. The rooms had been empty, every shadow stretching too long, every corner colder than it should have been.
Her shoes were gone.
Luke had tried not to think too much of it. He told himself she had errands, maybe was visiting a friend. But the excuses he whispered into the air sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
Hours passed. He sat at the table as the clock ticked louder, as if mocking him. He checked his phone, then checked it again, though no new messages came. The minutes dragged into hours, and every creak of the old building made him look up, hoping to hear her key in the lock. But there was nothing.
He thought about Gordy, about calling him, about spilling everything that gnawed at his chest. But he couldn't. Saying it aloud would make it real, and he wasn't ready for that. Instead, he sat in silence, clinging to the last threads of denial, the beer bottle sweating on the table in front of him.
It was almost midnight when the lock finally turned. The door opened, hinges groaning softly, and she stepped inside.
Her hair was damp from the rain, clinging to her cheeks and neck. She froze when she saw him there in the dim light, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dark with exhaustion and suspicion. For the briefest moment, something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe irritation—before she slid the mask back on, her lips curving into a smile that didn't touch her eyes.
"You're home," she said lightly, her tone carefully even. "I didn't think you'd be here so early."
Luke's gaze shifted to the clock on the wall. The hands pointed just past midnight. His jaw tightened, and his voice came out low, rough, as though scraped against stone. "Early?"
She set her purse on the counter, slipped out of her coat, moving with a calmness that looked too practiced. "With a friend," she said smoothly, the same excuse as always. "I told you before, you worry too much."
Luke stood slowly, his chair scraping back against the floor. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling as though the act of breathing itself had become a burden. His voice cracked with restrained fury. "Who is he?"
Her mask faltered then, just a hairline fracture, but enough for Luke to see. Her eyes narrowed, sharp as broken glass, before she tilted her head, her lips pressing into a thin smile. "Luke," she said softly, her tone dropping lower, almost cruel, "what if there is someone else? What would you do then?"
The words sliced deeper than any knife could have. For a heartbeat, Luke couldn't move. His chest constricted, the air leaving his lungs in a rush as the dream he had built, the life he had sacrificed for, came crashing down around him.
The necklace he had bought her just weeks ago caught the light, gleaming against her throat like a cruel joke. He had bled for that piece of jewelry, working late shifts, saving every extra dollar, believing it would be a symbol of his love. Now it was nothing but mockery.
Before Luke could speak, a sound stirred from the hallway. Heavy footsteps. A shadow stretched long across the floor as another figure emerged, tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. He stepped fully into the light, his smirk twisted, sharp, triumphant.
The man didn't look away, didn't flinch. He stood there as though he belonged in Luke's home, as though he belonged with her.
Luke's stomach dropped. The world tilted, the floor beneath him cracking open.
The truth was no longer a whisper in the back of his mind. It was standing in his living room, flesh and blood, staring him down with mocking eyes.
And Luke Walker finally understood: the fractures in his world had shattered completely. There was no mending what was about to come.
Luke's breath caught as the man stepped closer, the weight of his presence filling the room. He was taller than Luke by an inch or two, with a broad frame that spoke of confidence, maybe arrogance, more than hard work. His clothes were casual but expensive, a pressed shirt that hadn't seen a day of labor, shoes polished despite the rain outside.
He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sharp with amusement as if he were watching a play unfold. "So this is the husband," he said, his voice deep, smooth, and edged with mockery.
Luke's fists clenched at his sides. His eyes flicked to her, searching for denial, for some shred of truth that would make this all go away. But she didn't look ashamed. She didn't look guilty. Instead, she stood between them, her expression calm, her eyes unreadable.
"Why?" Luke's voice cracked, his chest tightening with every word. "After everything I've done, everything I've given—why?"
She met his gaze, her lips curving into a faint smile that cut him deeper than any blade. "Because you thought love was enough," she said softly. "But love doesn't buy the life I want."
The man chuckled darkly, pushing off the frame and stepping closer. "You should've known, Walker. She was too good for this dump. Too good for a guy breaking his back for scraps."
Luke's hands trembled. He wanted to lunge at him, to smash his fists into that smirk, to drag him out of the apartment and into the storm. But the betrayal burned hotter than anger, freezing him in place. His eyes locked on hers, desperate, pleading. "I loved you," he whispered.
Her expression didn't waver. She tilted her head, her smile thin, cruel. "And that's exactly why this is so easy."
The man's movement was sudden, a blur of motion as he stepped forward. Luke barely saw the flash of metal before pain tore through his stomach. He gasped, the air ripped from his lungs, his eyes wide as he staggered back.
The knife twisted once, deliberate, before pulling free.
Luke's hands flew to the wound, warmth spilling through his fingers, his knees buckling beneath him. The world spun, the storm outside roaring louder, drowning out everything but the sound of his heartbeat hammering in his ears.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She only watched, her eyes cold and unblinking, as Luke collapsed onto the floor.
The man crouched low, his smirk widening. "Should've learned, Walker. The world doesn't reward fools who cling to dreams."
Luke's vision blurred, the edges of the room fading into darkness. His chest heaved, his throat tight with words he couldn't force out. His hand reached for her, trembling, desperate, but she stepped back, out of reach.
The last thing he saw before the dark swallowed him was her face, calm and perfect, lips curving into a smile as if his death was nothing more than the closing of a chapter she no longer wanted to read.
And then—nothing.
Darkness pressed in from every side, thick and suffocating. Luke's body felt heavy, pinned to the cold floor, yet some part of him remained aware—his heart pounding like a war drum, the warmth of his blood spilling across the tiles, the fading sound of their voices hovering above him like cruel ghosts.
He tried to move. His fingers twitched, scraping weakly against the floor, slick with his own blood. Every breath came ragged, shallow, his lungs straining against the weight crushing his chest. His vision flickered, fading in and out, the edges burning with shadows.
"…is it done?" Her voice drifted down, calm and measured, as if she were asking about a chore, not the man she had vowed to spend her life with.
The man chuckled, wiping the blade on a towel before tossing it carelessly into the sink. "He's not getting back up from that. Trust me."
Luke wanted to scream, to curse them both, to claw his way upright and prove them wrong. But his strength bled out with every second, his body betraying him as completely as she had. His mouth opened, but only a faint gasp escaped, lost beneath the storm pounding against the windows.
He turned his head slightly, forcing his gaze toward her. She stood there, her arms crossed, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp. There was no grief, no hesitation. Only that faint, cruel smile that had replaced the woman he thought he loved.
Tears stung his eyes, not from the pain of the wound, but from the hollow ache splitting his chest wider than any knife could. Why? The word screamed in his mind, echoing through the darkness, but his lips could not form it.
The man grabbed her hand, pulling her close, pressing a kiss to her lips while Luke lay bleeding only a few feet away. The sight blurred in Luke's vision, his heart convulsing with rage and sorrow all at once.
His body was failing, but his mind burned. Memories rushed through him—her laugh in the early days, Gordy's steady hand on his shoulder, the dream of a future filled with children and a home of their own. It all unraveled in front of him, dissolving into nothingness as if the universe itself was mocking him.
The rain outside intensified, hammering against the windows, thunder rumbling through the night. Luke's body shuddered, his limbs growing colder. His hand slipped from his wound, falling limp against the floor.
The world dimmed. Their voices grew distant, distorted, as though carried away by the storm.
And then, at last, everything went silent.
But in that silence, just as the final thread of life slipped from his grasp, a spark stirred within the void—faint, fragile, but alive. A whisper, not from outside, but from somewhere deep inside his soul.
This is not the end.
The silence should have been final. Death, Luke thought in the last flicker of awareness, was supposed to be cold, still, an ending without return. But instead of fading into nothing, he found himself adrift in a place that felt endless.
Darkness stretched in all directions, not empty but alive, pulsing with faint echoes. His body was gone—no pain, no blood, no weight dragging him down. Only thought remained, raw and unfiltered, stretched thin across the void.
Luke tried to breathe, though he no longer had lungs. He tried to move, though he had no limbs. And yet, somehow, he existed.
A voice, soft as a whisper and vast as the storm outside his apartment, threaded through the void.
You were betrayed.
The words rippled through him, stirring the embers of rage buried deep in his soul. Images flared—her face, cold and unyielding, the smirk of the man who had driven the blade into his gut, the necklace glimmering like mockery around her throat.
You were broken.
The voice deepened, resonating with the hollow ache in his chest. The dream of his life—the home, the family, the love—shattered like glass, each shard cutting deeper into what remained of him.
But you are not finished.
The void shifted. Threads of light began to weave around him, faint and fragile, like ink bleeding across paper. They twisted and curled until they formed the outline of a book—massive, ancient, its pages glowing faintly in the dark. The cover was blank, yet it pulsed with an energy that called to him.
Luke drifted closer, drawn not by choice but by inevitability. The book opened slowly, its pages fluttering without wind, each one filled with sketches—pictures of things both familiar and impossible. A ring glinting in candlelight. A mansion framed by gardens. A woman's silhouette, graceful and perfect. Weapons, jewels, scrolls, beasts that belonged in dreams or nightmares.
His soul trembled.
The whisper came again, curling around him like fire.
Pull from the page. Take what you desire. Nothing is beyond your reach.
Luke reached instinctively, though he had no hands. The image of the ring shimmered, peeled free from the parchment, and fell into his grasp as though it had always belonged there. The moment he touched it, his form solidified—hands, arms, a body remade in the glow of the book's light.
The void surged, folding inward, collapsing around him. The book slammed shut with a thunderous crack, and Luke's eyes flew open.
He was no longer on the floor of his apartment. No blood. No knife. No traitors looming above him.
Instead, he was standing in a chapel, light streaming through stained glass windows. Music swelled faintly in the background, and before him, she stood once more—dressed in white, bouquet in hand, her smile bright and unbroken.
The day of their wedding.