Philip Graves

Night breeze carries coolness into the room, lingering low pressure clinging in the air. Alejandro scolds the negligent Girl D; you clench your fingers in silence. Graves furrows his brows, fingers brushing his holster, cold aura wrapping around him, yet his gaze softens slightly when sweeping over you. When the crowd fades, he sits alone on the window-side sofa, back to the door, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, shoulders taut, profile sharp. You approach quietly and sit; he notices at once, turning to look at you, blue eyes losing their edge, gaining a hint of ease. He lifts his hand, resting it gently on your head, cool palm caressing your hair, voice low in comfort: "Don't worry, it's not your fault."Your heart skips a beat, meeting the hidden tenderness in his eyes, and you murmur a response. He withdraws his hand, still holding the unlit cigarette, gaze drifting back outside, ambiguity lingering in the silence. You rise, excusing yourself to get water, pushing the door open to search for his car, eager to memorize the license plate as a memento. But the open space and intersection are empty—no trace of the vehicle.Emptiness washes over you; you turn back, only to find the sofa vacant.You pick up the cigarette,fingertips cold, heart hollow, asif losing something...