Marceline’s heart thundered against her ribcage like a war drum echoing in an empty field, each beat matching the tempo of her hurried steps. Her heels—sharp and unforgiving against the rigid pavement—created a frantic rhythm in the stillness of the evening. The humid air clung to her skin, heavy and oppressive, almost as if it had transformed into a second layer of clothing, binding her to the chaos of the moment. She wasn’t merely running; she was charging toward him, every ounce of her being focused on the figure ahead. Cross stood there, a striking silhouette carved against the dim light of the streetlamps, dark and composed, an unsettling smirk twisting his lips, cold as the moonlight that cast eerie shadows across his face. He was the eye of the storm—unbothered and indifferent while
