She stepped closer, the clicking of her heels a sharp counterpoint to the synth-line in his head. She reached out and pulled one of the earbuds from his ear. The sound of the city rushed back in—the sirens, the distant shouts, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt.
It wasn't a whisper. It was a roar. L’appel du vide. The void wasn't empty; it was calling his name with the voice of everything he’d ever lost and every choice he hadn’t made. It was the ultimate freedom—the one second of weightlessness before the pavement claimed its due. "Thinking of checking out early?"
They descended the iron stairs, leaving the heights behind. In the shadows of the alleyway, the neon light caught them both—two actors in a play where the ending hadn't been written yet, walking away from the edge and back into the beautiful, messy noise of the world.
Elias looked at her, then back at the drop. The vertigo shifted. The terrifying urge to jump transformed into a sudden, electric surge of defiance. He wasn't a victim of the void; he was the one standing on its threshold, choosing to stay.
Elias didn't turn. He knew the voice. It belonged to Jax, a woman who looked like she’d been carved out of shadows and cigarette smoke. She was leaning against the brickwork, her leather jacket shimmering with moisture. "Just listening to the music," Elias lied.