The rain started just before dawn.
It tapped softly against the tall glass windows of Atticus’s penthouse, like hesitant fingers asking for permission to enter. The city below looked blurred and distant, drowned in gray mist and broken neon lights. Everything felt slower… heavier… like the world itself was holding its breath.
Atticus hadn’t slept.
He sat on the floor beside the couch, his back resting against it, his phone lying uselessly in his hand. The screen had gone dark hours ago, but he still stared at it as if it might suddenly light up with her name.
Sheila.
Just thinking it made his chest tighten.
The events of the previous night replayed in his mind like a cruel movie stuck on repeat. The argument. The accusations. The silence that followed. And worst of all the look in he
