The plaza buzzed as if it had a life of its own. People flowed through it like a current—chatting, laughing, brushing past one another in bursts of bright color and motion. The sun cast everything in a warm golden wash, and a light breeze carried the smell of pastries with a gentle hint of flowers and fallen leaves.
Clara stood by the fountain at the roundabout, pretending not to check the time. The water glittered behind her like glass thread while she watched the storefront windows and the passing people.
"Hello Princess."
The voice came from just close enough to make her spine flick. Clara turned.
Cyra stood in front of her—tall, precise, dangerously composed. The slicked-back black hair, the sharp cut of his jaw, the leather jacket he somehow made look tailored—he might as well have stepped out of a cinematic slow-motion entrance.
One hand stayed lazily tucked into his pocket while the other held out a coffee cup.
"You look as pretty as a picture, my dear," he drawled. Smooth. Effortless. He wasn't even trying.
Clara narrowed her eyes but still took the coffee. "Thank you… for the coffee, not the compliment."
She lifted it towards her lips and inhaled, letting the steam nip her skin. Her lashes fluttered half-closed in a soft moment of indulgence, one she didn't realize he was watching.
She sipped. "Not bad."
Her gaze caught something.
"Cyra… who's Tom?"
He tilted his head. "Hm?"
"The cup. It says Tom." She rotated it slowly. "Why does it say Tom?"
Something behind his onyx eyes sharpened. Predatory, but in silk gloves.
"Tom," he repeated mildly. "Tom is a loud-mouthed parasite who mistook a barista for a punching bag."
Clara blinked. "Um… can you explain what you are talking about?"
"The man, Tom. I heard him screaming at her," Cyra said, expression flat. "Called her slow. Useless. A waste of payroll. She was shaking so hard she nearly spilled boiling espresso on herself."
"So you… stole his coffee?"
"No," he corrected calmly. "I relieved him of it."
She paused. "That means the same thing."
"Not quite." He stepped closer, voice lowering to a velvet murmur.
"See, Tom attempted to square up to me. Which was unwise. I simply… removed him from my personal space."
"…Removed him?" Clara echoed, brow rising.
"One arm to the collar," Cyra replied, like discussing wine, "pinned him against the counter. Nothing dramatic. Just enough pressure behind the elbow to make him reconsider his enthusiasm for verbal assault."
Her mouth fell slightly open.
"So yes," he concluded, unbothered, "I took the drink. After I paid for it. And after I advised him to reflect on his tone with women who didn't deserve it."
Clara stared.
"You physically manhandled someone because they were rude?" she verified.
"Darling," Cyra chuckled, "you say manhandled as if I flattened him through drywall. I merely reminded him there are consequences to behaving like a coward."
"That's still—"
"Justice," he supplied simply.
Clara wanted to protest. She tried to protest. But the image that formed—his hand curled in some guy's collar, pinning him with sheer effortless strength—made her pulse betray her.
She turned away, armor snapping back into place. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."
Cyra smirked and offered his arm as though escorting royalty. She didn't take it.
He led her off the plaza a few blocks until they stopped in front of a glass-domed building.
"The Museum of Science?" Clara blinked.
"You sound surprised, Princess."
"I just—" she hesitated. The corners of her mouth tugged upward but she quickly remembered herself. "—expected something else."
"You thought I'd take you someplace shallow, maybe flaunt my wealth," he said smoothly, opening the door for her. "How disappointing for your expectations."
I actually thought you'd try to get me drunk. She thought, relieved.
"I'm not a gold digger but I don't need to explain myself to you."
Inside, the museum swallowed them in a hum of cool air and polished marble. People streamed through corridors dotted with holographic models and suspended orbits. Clara couldn't help the tiny flicker of happiness warming her chest.
They joined a guided tour that wound through astronomy exhibits and meteorite displays.
Cyra drifted beside her, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted like he was cataloging reactions more than artifacts.
Every so often she caught him watching her—not the displays. Her.
She looked away each time. He looked smugder each time.
"Why do you keep staring at me?" She finally questioned.
"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you? — admit it." He teased.
"… I'm not completely miserable", she answered back.
Cyra snorted. "Have you been here before?" He was now facing Clara completely.
"Once —", she tilted her head in recollection.
Cyra remained silent and she felt the impulse to continue.
"My dad took me here when I was little."
"Are you and your father close?" His voice was warm, no tease left in his speech.
"We used to be. We fight a lot now." Clara shrugged.
"I'm sorry."
"Nah, don't be. He's a good dad. He works very hard so that me and my mom can have a better life then he had. Now he calls me spoiled like if he didn't make me this way." She looked at Cyra and felt warmth. She looked away.
"— Anyway, let's go look at space junk." She bounced forward not waiting for Cyra and his piercing eyes.
They rounded a corner to the central exhibit: the moon gem.
It sat sealed in a clear acrylic case atop a velvet-mounted pedestal. Black like cooled magma—but with an iridescent green-blue shift glow whenever the overhead lights caught it. It reminded Clara of a black opal dipped in old engine oil.
Clara stepped closer. "Wow, this is was not here last time…"
"The only one of its kind ever located," the tour guide announced. "Impact-forged, likely from a Venusian fragment that collided with the lunar surface thousands of years ago before breaking loose again and entering Earth's gravity and creating the cosmic energy you see in this sci-fi like glow."
As the group murmured awe, Cyra was quiet.
Too quiet.
Clara looked up just in time to see his fingers hooking under the seam of the acrylic casing.
"Cy—"
click.
The lid came loose. Just… lifted. Like it was nothing.
"CYRA!" she whisper-yelled, eyes bulging. "Are you INSANE?!"
"Relax." He palmed the gem effortlessly.
"The security feed is looping."
"How do you know that?!"
"I came here yesterday and seduced the security woman into letting me into that control room with her."
She lunged forward, grabbing the gem with both hands. "That's not what I meant. And gross! Put it back!"
He tugged, still maddeningly calm. "Clara—"
"No! I am not being an accessory to felony theft!"
"You already are, darling." His voice dropped to a purr. "You arrived with me."
She yanked harder.
He pulled back. She was surprising strong for her stature.
The gem trembled between them, heat rising like a coal about to burst.
Then, a flash.
A crack.
The veins of the stone lit red-hot, glowing like volcanic glass from the inside out.
"Oh my god—"
The gem split—not fully, but enough to vibrate. Lightning flickered like something was alive inside it.
Then it shocked her.
Electricity shot through her palms like a live current. Clara gasped and released it, stumbling backward, hands shaking—buzzing—crackling.
"What the hell was THAT?!"
Her skin glowed faint, arcs dancing beneath the surface before fading.
Cyra's expression flickered from fascination to realization—then to swift advantage. He slipped the gem into his bag faster than her heart could complete a beat.
"Thank you for holding that," he said, already turning.
"You—you can't just— CYRA!"
But he was already walking casually into the next gallery.
No rush.
No panic.
Just… gone.
Clara's heart was pounding out of her chest. Everyone had seen her standing at the pedestal. At his side. Her pulse skittered into panic.
She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets before a guard could round the corner and bolted casually—casually—for the nearest exit.
Outside, she power-walked like a fugitive.
Inside her pockets her hands hummed, lightning curling under her skin each time her nerves spiked.
By the time she made it back home, she collapsed face-first into her comforter.
Her hands were still tingling.
Her arms were still tingling.
And the panic attack slammed into her full-force…
—until it didn't.
Her breathing steadied, the crackling quieted. Like a dial on a dimmer sliding down.
Her eyes stung with tears. Exhaustion flooded her.
Clara, electrified from the inside out and now probably wanted by security footage on every news station, curled up and sobbed until her lashes were wet and heavy.
—and then she passed out cold.