The rain fell heavily. It hit the glass rhythmically, its wet sounds barely muting the pulsing hum of the city at night. Neon lights, yellow, pink, green and a rare red, traveled through the glass windows, casting jagged reflections on the walls of the dim apartment. They were the only source of light in the room, as the owner of it preferred the glow of the city to the lights of her apartment.

  She was lying down on her large couch, her naked skin cutting a sharp ivory contrast to the black simili-leather. Her long legs were crossed together tantalizingly, her curves delightfully hidden by the shadows. Raven black hair fell from the shoulders down in soft and luscious waves. Her crimson eyes glinted under the weight of dramatic eyeliner. Piercing and hypnotic, they stood out against her striking features, each one carved with a sharpness that demanded attention.

  Her ears were adorned by multiple earrings, with the most striking one being a chain linking two earrings. A silvery pendant rested against her collarbone, and multiple bands adorned her wrists. Near her left thigh, a tattoo - a simple number “14”- was etched into her skin, thin black lines that marked some forgotten, distant memory.

  Thin smoke escaped her sanguine lips as she exhaled languidly. In her right hand, hanging from the sofa, sat a long cigarette. Her left hand rested across her belly, just above an empty champagne bottle nestled between her thighs, its cool surface brushing against the heat of her skin. The silence was deep, broken only by the soft patter of rain, a perfect backdrop to her languid mood.

  Another car sped by outside, its anti-grav engine whirring loudly, and Liz’s focus was shattered. The sharp, metallic noise echoed in her mind, its high-pitched whine vibrating against the alcohol in her veins, resonating in her hazy mind. She could feel the familiar ache creeping in, the creeping edges of exhaustion that always seemed to be just beyond her grasp. It seemed like sleep would elude her again today. She shivered despite the hot weather.

  With a soft sigh of frustration, Liz tossed the champagne bottle behind her, the sound of it shattering on the wall slicing through the air. She immediately regretted it. There had been something almost comforting about the cool bottle pressing against her skin, a sensation now lost. Her lips curled in a small, fleeting smile—half self-mockery, half something darker. She groaned again, frustrated this time. She would have to get another one. Rising from the couch, she moved with fluid grace, her bare skin glowing under the flickering lights. Her dress lay discarded in a heap on the floor, a dark silken and tangled mass of fabric. Liz padded barefoot across the cool floor, the remnants of her alcohol-induced haze still clouding her mind. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each step carrying a sensual weight as she swayed slightly, the world spinning around her. She needed something—anything—to stave off the tension, the constant emptiness that seemed to gnaw at her. She crushed her cigarette in the ashtray laid on the coffee table nearby. She then took one more step towards her fridge. And collapsed drunkenly, hitting her head against the table.

  “Liz. Liz. Liz. Can you hear me? Liz. Gods damn you. LIZ!”

  Liz was woken up from knocking herself out against her own coffee table by the screams of her assistant, friend and manager, Alexandra Essan. The drabbily dressed redhead stared sternly at the beautiful brunette as she flitted her eyes open, the light of day blinding her temporarily. Groggily, Liz slurred a couple words. “Hey… Alex?” Suddenly she felt a pang of pain on the side of her right temple. She slowly raised her hand, feeling her head as she tuned out Alex’s screams. Her fingers ran through her hair, across dried blood caked across her temple. No wonder that hurt. She vaguely remembered banging her head after throwing a bottle.

  She hoisted herself up, her head throbbing, and the world spinning. She needed a drink. Or two. Still ignoring Alex, she walked to the fridge. She opened the fridge, its chilly air kissing the curve of her bare waist, raising goosebumps along her thighs. Inside, laid haphazardly against a tray of half-eaten berries and tubes of nutrition paste, sat three bottles.

  Her fingers wrapped around the neck of the first bottle, wringing tightly against the cold glass. The cool sensation was welcome. Her freezing body shivered again.

  Behind her, Alexandra’s voice continued, angry and muffled, like it was echoing from underwater. Liz couldn’t hear the words. Didn’t want to. She only wanted for the cold glass and its panacea. For numbness. For calm. For need. Always need.

  Wringing the neck tighter, she popped the cork with ease.

  The first sip was bitter. The bubbles popped sharply, heightening the taste of the alcohol and aggravating her mouth. She grimaced slightly but took another sip. And another. She guzzled the bottle until the world stopped spinning. Until she stopped being so cold. Until she could feel warmth in the pit of her stomach flowing into her veins. Until she could feel the warm light of the sun kissing her arms.

  “Liz,” Alexandra said more quietly now, standing a few steps away. “You can’t keep doing this.”

  Liz spun, naked and unashamed, crimson eyes half-lidded, lips barely parted. A strand of black hair clung to her cheek, made damp by sweat or sleep. Or something else.

  “I’m not doing anything,” she proclaimed, the bottle still in her hand. “And I’ll sing better like this anyways.” She raised the bottle again and drank as she walked back to her couch, her soft hips swaying ever so slightly in the daylight. The storm had stopped. And light was abound.

  Liz lay sprawled, her fallen body tantalizingly sunk into the couch, glistening skin clinging faintly to sweat and foamy alcohol. The empty bottle rested once again between her thighs, cradled in the crook of her hips like a lover returned to its rightful place. Her dark hair fanned out against the black simili-leather, a cascade of night kissed with sunlight.

  "What a wicked life I lead," she muttered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the city. Her crimson eyes fluttered toward the ceiling, unfocused and heavy, as if trying to see through it—to reach stars long forgotten or times long gone.

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  Alex was still standing near the coffee table, her arms crossed, fuming silently now that shouting had once again proven useless. She watched Liz with familiar worry and exasperation, saying nothing, afraid that the wrong word would shatter what fragile peace still clung in the room. And then Liz hummed.

  Low at first. A ghost of a melody. Her voice was a velvety thread weaving through the silence, rising through the room like smoke. She began to sing—softly, tentatively, hauntingly. Her voice filled the space with aching beauty, a lullaby meant not for comfort, but confession.

  We met in silence where the night begins,

  Your name caught gently on the wind.

  A touch not dared, a kiss not tried,

  Still burned like comets deep inside.

  I traced your gaze across the stars,

  Too far to hold, too near to guard.

  We danced where no one dares to see—

  Where love was shadowed, wild, and free.

  And though you never called me yours,

  You haunt me still behind closed doors.

  The final note hung in the air like a secret begging not to be spoken aloud.

  Liz, still staring upward, let out a low, bitter chuckle. “There. That’s what I’ll sing later.”

  She closed her eyes again. The city raged outside. But inside—there was only the echo of her voice, and the weight of a yearning for something she could not even put into words. But that. That was her peace.

  Alexandra had seen this before with Liz. Too many times. Almost daily.

  The shattered glamour. The whispered songs. The naked fragility masquerading as seduction. It always came in waves—champagne first, or any alcohol really. Then Stardust. That unholy, evil, sinful powder. Then the ache that settled in Liz’s bones like an unspoken curse. And now, her voice again. That voice that could shake a stadium but trembled in the quiet like something searching for home.

  Alex leaned back against the wall, her fingers tightening around her own arms, digging into the fabric of her sleeves. She didn’t speak. She never did during these moments. Words were like glass here—too loud, too sharp. And Liz… Liz was all skin and sorrow. You touched her wrong, she bled.

  Liz was barely aware of her. She hummed again—barely audible now, as if trying to hold onto the fading ghost of her own melody. Her head tilted toward the window, where streaks of pink and green neon danced against the sun. Her eyes gleamed, not with clarity, but with something deeper.

  This was Liz’s peace. The most fragile peace. The calm before the storm.

  Alexandra would have stood silently. Most days, she would have just stood there watching over Liz no matter the consequences. But not today.

  Her voice came out softly. “Liz”.

  No answer. Just the faint rustle of Liz’s chest rising, falling.

  Alex stepped in fully, her shoes silent on the cold floor, as she knelt by the couch, her tablet clutched against her ribs, like it might shield her from the helpless ache in her chest.

  “You were supposed to start warming up hours ago,” she said. “They moved the time. The set begins earlier now. House Verlone is watching closely. And—”

  “Don’t care,” Liz murmured.

  Her voice was soft and hoarse. Half-sleep, half-dream.

  “You don’t have to care,” Alex replied, kneeling beside her. “You just have to stand. You just have to sing.”

  “I’m not a machine.”

  “No. You’re better,” Alex whispered. “You’re a gift. And this world is not good enough for you.”

  Liz blinked. She turned her head slowly, barely looking at Alex. She chuckled. “I’m not good enough for me.” She still didn’t move to cover herself. She didn’t care. Her body was a curse. The object of desires. She let the silence hang for a moment, then reached under one of the couch cushions, fingers brushing against a small metal vial.

  Alex reached out instinctively to stop her. But stopped halfway as Liz’s fingers closed around the tiny vial.

  Alex didn’t fight her. Not anymore. And she had not for a long time. She just sat back, spine rigid, hands tight in her lap. “Liz— At least… wait until after. Please. Just tonight.”

  Liz unscrewed the vial. “Don’t ask me to be sober in that place.”

  “You don’t have to be sober”, begged Alex. “Just functional. They’re just people, Liz.”

  “No.” Liz turned her head on the couch cushion. Her gaze found Alex with unnatural calm. “They’re Verlones. And they scare you just like they scare me.”

  Alex flinched as she swallowed her arguments, her panic. She could not say anything. Not with Stardust so close. Because if she said the wrong thing, even just once… No one would be able to pick up the pieces.

  Liz tiled the silvery vial to her nose. A soft inhale. The hiss of Stardust sinking in. Her eyes fluttered closed.

  “And the Emperor’s envoy?” Liz’s voice had already lost interest. Just air passing through her lips, weary and distant.

  Alex shook her head. “Dante Saint. A Blademaster for the Emperor.”

  A silence followed, and then—barely audible—a laugh.

  Not joy. Not amusement. A dry, broken thing from the back of her throat. Saint.

  Liz didn’t open her eyes, but her lips curled faintly. Not in a smile—something hollower. “Saint,” she whispered, like it was a bad punchline.

  “In this place? Among them?” She exhaled, smoke and irony. “Must be a cruel joke.”

  She shifted, not fully awake, not fully gone. Just that place in between where truth slips out sideways.

  “Imagine,” she murmured, her voice softer now, “something holy… walking into this.”

  She laughed again, bitterly, and began to hum.

  A melody shaped from the ruins of dreams. Something aching and beautiful, and not quite whole. Her voice—raspy from Stardust, velvety from champagne—slipped into song. Words that spoke of love beneath stars, of things forbidden, things lost.

  Alex stood beside her, lips tight, saying nothing. Watching Liz drift, and somehow… tether still to this shitty, shitty world.

  Liz’s eyes fluttered open, but her gaze didn’t settle on anything. The name still echoed in her head.

  “Saint,” she whispered again, as if tasting it. Her voice was hoarse, frayed silk. “That’s what they’re sending us now? A savior draped in gold?” She laughed once—soft and off-key. “We’re all so blessed, aren’t we, Alex?”

  She stretched a leg lazily, toes curling into the cold air. Her other leg remained bent, the empty bottle still nestled where it had been all night, like a lover that never left.

  “Maybe he’ll walk in with clean hands and bloodless boots… all divine and glittering and untouched by the dirt we bathe in.” Her head lolled to one side. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

  A pause.

  Then, softer, almost like she forgot Alex was in the room:

  “Saints don’t come to places like this. Not unless they’re here to fall.”

  Her fingers found her pendant, tracing the edges absently as if searching for meaning.

  “He’ll sit in their marble halls. Watch our little songs, our painted smiles, our naked pleas. And they’ll call it entertainment. Call me a voice. But they don’t know. They never know.”

  Her eyes turned to the rain-spattered window, crimson and vacant.

  “I sing because if I don’t, I’ll vanish. But they clap because they think I want to be seen.”

  She drifted quieter then, her voice tapering into a hum. That same aching tune. Her fingers moved with it—on her necklace, her thigh, the air—like she was composing without knowing.

  Alex stayed silent, barely breathing.

  Because it was in these moments—slurred and strange and soft—that Liz was most herself.

  And most breakable.