In cities built of smoke and sin,
Where kings wear shadows on their skin,
A restless heart begins to roam,
Unmoved by crowns, unclaimed by home.
He walks through power, cold and deep—
A sovereign starved of what he keeps.
Dominance tastes like dust tonight,
And even triumph feels too tight.
Elsewhere, beneath a softer sky,
A trembling girl learns not to cry.
Her laughter small, her spirit worn,
A fragile bloom the world has torn.
Yet still she rises, quiet, brave,
Escaping what she cannot save.
She carries light she cannot see,
A faded hope, a memory.
Two distant worlds, both frayed and tired,
By chance — or fate — inevitably conspired.
A shiver runs where destinies blur,
Where night collides with what resembles her.
A single moment, sharp as flame,
Begins a story neither can name.
For some connections start in fear,
In breathless steps and drawing near.
And once their shadows touch at last,
The future shifts… the die is cast.
.....
The Day Before:
Kylian pov
Spain pulsed beneath neon and sin.
From the glass terrace of his private office, Kylian Alejandro watched the crowd sway under the rhythmic throb of bass. His club, El Cielo Rojo, was a world unto itself — a kingdom of light and vice built from shadows.
Below, bodies moved like smoke — money flowing as fast as the liquor, secrets exchanged faster than words.
Every deal sealed beneath the glow of crimson light had his mark on it.
To outsiders, El Cielo Rojo was Madrid's most exclusive playground — where billionaires and politicians came to sin safely.
But to those who truly knew, it was the center of his empire: a perfect front for power, exchange, and silence.
Kylian leaned back against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, watching the world he owned.
He wasn't smiling — he never did.
Control was his language; chaos, his stage.
"King pin," came a low voice from the doorway — his second Rafael
"The Americans confirmed. They want a meeting in New York. Shipment. Large one."
Kylian exhaled a lazy curl of smoke.
"They'll have it," he said.
Rafael hesitated. "They asked for you personally."
A pause. The bass pounded below, lights flickering red and gold against Kylian's face.
He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray.
"Then I suppose I'll give them what they want."
"You'll travel yourself?"
"Yes." His tone was calm but final. "New York deserves to see what power looks like when it walks into a room."
He turned back to the city — a mosaic of light and ruin.
Spain had given him everything: money, respect, fear.
But lately, even dominance felt dull.
"Prepare the jet," he murmured. "We leave at dawn."
When Rafael left, silence stretched around him.
Only the distant echo of laughter rose from below.
Kylian's gaze drifted across the skyline — the place he'd built, the life that no longer satisfied him.
And for the briefest moment, a flicker of something human crossed his expression — memory, maybe… or loss.
The Next Day: Blossom's pov
The restaurant buzzed with life — clinking cutlery, chatter, the low hum of music mixing with the aroma of fried spices.
Stepping through its doors, I was swallowed by the chaos.
Customers filled every seat — familiar faces from school, others from the neighborhood.
To them, it was comfort.
To me, escape.
At the back, Emily's laughter broke through the noise.
Her smile always reached me before her words did.
"Heyyy, Blossom!" she squealed, wrapping me in a hug that smelled faintly of vanilla and safety.
"Hi, Emily."
"How's my favorite person?"
"We saw each other yesterday."
She gasped dramatically. "So? I still missed you."
I couldn't help but laugh — a small one, but real. "You're impossible."
"That's why you love me," she said, skipping away.
I stared after her, the smile fading slowly from my face.
She was everything I wasn't — light, free, unbroken.
By evening, the crowd thinned, and exhaustion replaced noise.
In the locker-room mirror, I met my own reflection — eyes dull, smile gone.
Another day gone.
Another night waiting to hurt.
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting.
I walked home, letting the silence wash over me.
The street was almost empty.
Then came the sound — a roar of tires, a slice of light, and a sudden screech that tore the air apart.
A black BMW stopped inches from me.
The scent of burnt rubber hit before the fear did.
The door opened.
Footsteps — slow, precise.
Then him.
He was tall. Controlled. His presence felt heavy — not from size, but from command.
Dark suit, darker eyes, and an accent that wrapped each word in steel.
"Fucking Americans," he muttered. "Always walking where they shouldn't."
He didn't look at me with concern — just irritation.
"Get up," he said. "I didn't hit you."
My voice was caught somewhere between anger and disbelief.
"You almost did."
His gaze flicked to mine — sharp, assessing, cold.
"And yet, you're fine."
He stepped closer, close enough for me to feel his breath.
"Move," he said quietly.
Then, after a heartbeat, "Unless you want me to move you."
A faint smirk touched his lips. "And trust me, you wouldn't like that."
I swallowed hard.
"Egoistic bastard," I whispered under my breath.
Something unreadable flashed in his eyes.
Then I turned and ran.
When I looked back, he was still there — watching, unmoving, as though memorizing the way I ran from him.
Inside, Kylian's driver glanced at him through the mirror.
"Sir, you've been quiet since the accident."
Kylian didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the sidewalk — the girl disappearing into the distance.
He whispered to himself, almost too softly to hear:
"She looks nothing like her… yet she feels the same."
The driver frowned slightly but said nothing.
The light turned green.
The car rolled forward, carrying two worlds that had just — unknowingly — begun to orbit each other.