—One week earlier—
The makeup room is steeped in silence, broken only by the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of the set beyond the door.
It's the kind of silence that settles into the bones—making a person feel more alone than they already are.
Angel sits in front of the mirror, but he isn't looking at himself.
His reflection stares back—golden hair falling across his forehead, dark circles shadowing his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line—but he doesn't see any of it.
His gaze is fixed on the phone in his hands, the screen glowing with messages he's sent into an endless, indifferent void.
Unseen.
Unanswered.
Unreturned.
He scrolls up slowly, rereading his own words— each one like a stone dropped into a bottomless well. Falling. And never making a sound.
Zyren, how was your day?
Six days ago.
No reply.
I tried that new café you mentioned. The coffee was good. You should come with me sometime.
Five days ago.
No reply.
