Lucas Kane's phone buzzed against the marble countertop, the screen lighting up with a name he didn't want to see. He ignored it. The woman in his bed—her name already slipping from memory—murmured something, but he was already pulling on his shirt, the fabric crisp and cold against skin still warm from her touch. He left without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.
Outside, the city was a different animal. At 3AM, the skyscrapers lost their arrogance, their glass facades reflecting nothing but emptiness.
Lucas slid behind the wheel of his black Audi, the leather seat familiar and unyielding. He drove with no destination, letting the city swallow him whole. Neon signs flickered past, casting bruised colors across the windshield, until he found himself parked outside a 24-hour diner he didn't remember choosing.
Inside, the diner was a time capsule—checkered floors, chrome stools, a waitress with tired eyes and a smile that didn't reach them. Lucas slid into a booth, ordered black coffee, and tried not to think. That was always the goal: don't think, don't feel, just keep moving.
She was there before he noticed her. At the counter, hunched over a sketchbook, her hair a riot of red and gold in the harsh fluorescent light. She wore paint-splattered jeans and a leather jacket with a rip at the elbow. Her fingers were stained with ink, her nails bitten down to the quick.
She looked up, caught him staring, and didn't look away.
It was as if they met before but couldn't quite remember each other. Then something just clicked.
Their eyes met. She raised an eyebrow, daring him to look away first.
He didn't.
The waitress brought his coffee. He sipped it, scalding and bitter, and tried to focus on the taste instead of the ache in his chest. The woman at the counter—Elena, he would learn "remember" later—closed her sketchbook and slid onto the stool across from him without asking.
"You look like shit," she said.
Lucas blinked. He was used to admiration, envy, the careful deference of people who wanted something from him. Not this. Not honesty.
"Excuse me?" he replied, voice cool as glass.
She shrugged. "You heard me. Most people who come in here at this hour are either running from something or looking for trouble. Which are you?"
He studied her. There was a wildness in her eyes, a challenge. He recognized it—he'd worn it himself, once.
"Maybe both," he said.
She grinned, sharp and unafraid. "Good. I hate being bored."