Cassian didn't speak as he led Elián through the building.
They passed glass offices, silent assistants, and walls lined with abstract art that looked expensive but unreadable. Elián kept his eyes low, his steps measured. He felt like a child in a museum — watched, but not welcomed.
Cassian stopped at a door with no label.
He handed Elián a keycard. "This is yours."
Elián blinked. "Mine?"
Cassian nodded. "No cameras. No staff. No Vivienne."
Elián hesitated. "Why?"
Cassian's voice was quiet. "Because you need a place where you're not being curated."
Inside, the room was unlike anything Elián expected.
Muted walls. Soft lighting. A piano in the corner. A single armchair. A desk with nothing on it. No mirrors. No screens.
Just space.
Elián stepped in slowly, like the air might break.
Cassian stayed at the threshold. "You don't have to perform here."
Elián turned. "Not even for you?"
Cassian's mouth twitched. "Especially not for me."
Elián wandered the room, fingertips grazing the piano keys. He didn't play. Not yet.
He sat in the armchair and stared at the ceiling.
It was quiet.
Not the kind of silence Vivienne demanded — the kind that suffocated.
This was different.
This was the kind that listened.
Cassian left without another word.
Elián stayed.
Hours passed.
He didn't check his phone. Didn't rehearse. Didn't pose.
He just existed.
And for the first time in years, that felt like enough.
Later that night, Elián returned home.
Vivienne was waiting, wine glass in hand, smile too sharp.
"Well?" she asked.
Elián shrugged. "It's a room."
She frowned. "Cassian doesn't do anything without purpose."
"I know."
Vivienne leaned in. "So what's the purpose?"
Elián looked past her, toward the window, where the city lights blurred like stars underwater.
"To let me breathe."
In the dark, Elián sat on his bed and stared at the keycard.
It was small. Plastic. Ordinary.
But it felt like a rebellion.
A door Vivienne couldn't open.
A space Cassian wouldn't invade.
A place where Elián could begin to unravel — safely.