The rain began as a whisper against the glass, the kind that never quite committed to a storm. Willow watched droplets trace the outline of her office window before sliding away, vanishing into the night. The rest of the floor had gone dark hours ago; only her monitor still glowed, throwing blue light across a desk too neat to be lived at.
She checked the clock. 8:47 p.m.
Miles would already be waiting.
She powered down the screen and gathered her bag. The office was silent but not peaceful — just emptied of everything human. The kind of silence that filled the ribs like fog. Her shoes clicked across the tiles, echoing too loudly for her taste. She'd stayed late again, cleaning up a project no one had asked her to touch. It was easier to fix code than to fix people.
In the elevator, her reflection looked back from three mirrored walls — pale, precise, efficient. A face designed for calm. She tried smiling at herself, but the expression didn't hold. It never did.
Outside, the city glistened — streets slick with rain, air thick with exhaust and wet asphalt. She tightened her coat around her and checked her phone.
One message.
Miles: Don't be late. Cordell's joining us.
No hi, no how was your day. Just logistics. An order disguised as coordination.
She typed back: Leaving now.
Then, almost out of reflex, added a small heart.
The bubble appeared as "Delivered." It didn't turn blue.
The restaurant gleamed like a trophy case — glass walls, gold fixtures, every surface reflective. Miles liked that. He said bright places photographed better. She spotted him instantly: perfect posture, tie immaculate, phone screen casting pale light across his jaw.
Christy Cordell sat opposite him — the boss's daughter, the heir apparent to everything Miles wanted to become. Blonde, vibrant, unbothered. The kind of woman who belonged in gold light.
When Willow approached, Christy's smile was practiced and symmetrical.
"Miles told me you're brilliant with data. We were just talking about you."
Miles rose, brushing his fingers over Willow's arm — the barest contact, enough for the camera flash of affection but nothing more.
"You made it," he said.
"You told me to," she replied lightly. The edge went unnoticed.
Dinner was noise: laughter that didn't include her, business talk disguised as charm. Miles spoke fluently — the same pitch tone he used with clients and, lately, with her. Christy touched his arm mid-sentence. He didn't move it away.
Willow counted, without meaning to. Once. Twice. By dessert, six times.
She didn't taste her food.
When the waiter poured more wine, she caught Miles looking at Christy's reflection in the glass of his water. He smiled — not the one he used with Willow, but something softer, unguarded. The realization slid through her like ice.
Outside, the rain had thickened to a silver sheet. Under the restaurant's awning, neon signs rippled across puddled pavement. Miles scrolled his phone with one hand, already half in another conversation.
"Don't start," he said without looking up.
She blinked. "Start what?"
"That thing you do — going quiet, making me guess."
"Maybe you should guess."
He sighed, pocketing his phone. "You're tired. I'll drive you home."
"I can get a cab."
"I said I'll drive."
The tone — casual, but unyielding — closed the argument before it began. She followed him to the car, reminding herself it was easier this way. Miles didn't mean harm. He just preferred things efficient. Predictable.
The car's interior smelled faintly of Christy Cordell's perfume — floral, expensive, faint but unmistakable. Willow noticed but said nothing.
They drove in silence for a while. The city lights turned the rain into motion blur, every droplet streaking like a line of code. Miles's hand rested on the wheel, his wedding band glinting faintly.
"You've been distant," he said at last. "I can feel it."
"So have you."
He gave a small, controlled laugh. "Work pressure. You know how it is."
"I do." She glanced out at the slick roads. "You like pressure. You like when people watch you handle it."
He frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." She adjusted the seat belt, eyes tracing her own reflection in the passenger window. "Just… maybe I'm not who you think I am."
"Don't be dramatic, Willow."
Her lips twitched — not in anger, but in something sadder, smaller. "Maybe not."
He sighed again, the sound of a man inconvenienced. His phone buzzed in the cup holder. She glanced down. A name flashed briefly before the screen dimmed. Christy C.
He didn't notice. Or didn't care.
Willow turned back to the window, the glow of oncoming headlights painting her reflection ghost-pale. Somewhere in the distance, a horn blared. Miles cursed under his breath, braking too late. The world lurched sideways.
The collision didn't sound like movies — no explosive crash, just an ugly, grinding impact followed by the shriek of metal folding in on itself. Airbags bloomed white. Glass became stars. Her body whipped forward, then back, her head slamming the window with a dull, wet sound.
She thought she heard him yell her name — or maybe not. Maybe he yelled Christy.
The car spun once, twice, before gravity remembered what to do. Then stillness.
Her breath came shallow, metallic. Her right arm hung at an impossible angle. She tried to turn toward him, but her neck refused to obey. All she could see was light — fractured, distant, pulsing red and blue through the rain.
If condition = pain, then run silence.
She obeyed.
Darkness took her like a hand closing around glass — firm, inevitable, final.