CliftonPOV
The espresso machine screamed. Clifton watched the dark liquid drip and tried to remember how to breathe.
Buster Williamson shuffled into the kitchen holding a mug printed with an anime girl. He took one look at Clifton's face and stopped dead.
"Sponsors on your ass again?"
"No." Clifton drank the espresso black. It scalded his throat. He didn't care.
Buster leaned against the fridge. "I just saw Delmus looking pale. Did you go rage at the rookies?"
Clifton set the cup down. The ceramic clinked against marble. "Do you remember the Fire Cup in Chicago? About a year and a half ago."
"Hell yeah. That was our peak. Why?"
"That trainee in the corner. The one with the cap." Clifton's voice was flat. Dead. "That's Justice Terry."
Buster's mug slipped. It cracked against the counter. "Wait. The guy who vanished after finals? The one you—" He stopped himself.
"The one I went crazy looking for," Clifton finished. "Yeah."
"Holy shit." Buster looked around, checking the hallway. "Why is he here? Is he trying to get you back?"
The words hit Clifton like a blade between the ribs.
Get you back.
He saw the alley again. The rain. Justice's hands shoving him away. The dry heaving. The look of pure, visceral revulsion in those dark eyes.
"He told me it wasn't real," Clifton said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "That night. Everything. Said it was a mistake."
Buster sucked in a breath. "But… the way he used to look at you. Like you were his whole world."
"An act." Clifton ran a hand through his hair. "He's a liar."
The words tasted like ash. They were safer than the alternative—that Justice had meant it, and Clifton had somehow destroyed it anyway.
A metallic clank sounded from the hallway.
Clifton moved. Three strides, the sliding door shoved open, his eyes scanning the empty corridor.
Nothing. Just a trash can, swaying back and forth.
Someone had been there. Someone had run.
Clifton stared at the swaying metal. His chest tightened. Justice had heard everything. The liar, the opportunist, the mistake—he'd heard it all.
Good.
Clifton turned back to Buster. "Not a word. To anyone."
Buster nodded frantically and fled.
Alone in the kitchen, Clifton pressed his right hand against the cold marble. The pain pulsed up his arm like a heartbeat. He closed his eyes, and the memory swallowed him whole.
Chicago. October. Rain.
