The rain came down in sheets, turning the neon glow of The Hollow into a smeared watercolor against the wet pavement. Luca shouldered through the door, the hinges groaning in protest, and the scent of stale beer and old leather wrapped around him like a second skin. His dress shirt clung to his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric damp from the downpour outside. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He shouldn’t be here. But the night had been long, the studio session a disaster, and the weight of his own frustration had driven him to the one place he knew would either numb the edge or sharpen it—depending on who he ran into.
And then he saw him.
Ash was a disaster. Slumped over the bar like a discarded marionette, strings cut, limbs limp. His black-painted nails tapped an uns
