Elián didn't go to the studio the next day.
He stayed in bed, curtains drawn, phone off.
The silence wasn't peaceful.
It was loud.
Every creak in the floorboards. Every shadow on the wall. Every memory he couldn't outrun.
He hadn't felt this hunted since he was fifteen.
Vivienne barged in around noon.
She didn't knock.
She never did.
"Why aren't you at the studio?" she asked, arms crossed, voice sharp.
Elián didn't look at her. "I needed a day."
Vivienne scoffed. "Cassian doesn't do 'days off.'"
Elián turned slowly. "I'm not his employee."
"No," she said. "You're his project."
That landed harder than he expected.
Vivienne sat on the edge of the bed, her tone softening — just enough to be dangerous.
"You're spiraling," she said. "And he's letting you."
Elián stared at her. "You think he's using me."
Vivienne smiled. "I think he's fascinated by you. That's worse."
Later, Elián turned his phone back on.
Twelve missed calls from Cassian.
Three new messages.
"Where are you?""Talk to me.""I'm worried."
And one more.
Unknown number.
"She's right. He doesn't want you healed. He wants you raw."
Elián went to the studio that night.
It was empty. Dark.
He sat at the piano, hands trembling.
He played a single note.
Then another.
Then a melody — broken, hesitant, beautiful.
Cassian stood in the doorway, silent.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't speak.
Just listened.
Like Elián was the only sound in the world.
When the music stopped, Elián didn't turn around.
He said, "I don't know who to trust."
Cassian's voice was quiet. "Start with yourself."
Elián laughed — bitter, tired. "He's the one I trust least."
Cassian stepped closer. "Then let me help you find him again."