Adrian Vale signed the divorce papers without looking at his ex-wife.
Not because he didn't care.
Because caring had been the problem for seventeen years.
The room was quiet, too quiet for something that should have been catastrophic. No shouting, no tears, no dramatic gestures—only the cold efficiency of two people who had learned when to stop. Celeste sat across from him, her posture perfect, hands folded, expression calm. "You'll be happier," she said, voice steady, practiced, and distant.
Adrian nodded. He hoped she was right. He didn't know what happiness felt like anymore—only what discipline demanded. He remembered the early years of their marriage, when laughter had come easily, before expectation and duty had carved silence between them. He recalled long evenings filled with polite conversation, dinners that ended too soon, and a quiet emptiness that neither could name. Those years had taught him control, patience, and restraint, but also left a hollow space he had learned to ignore.
When the papers were signed, he rose and left. The lobby was vast, marble floors gleaming under soft lighting, glass walls reflecting the city outside and the man he had become. Luna Empire stretched beneath him like a living organism, cold and indifferent. Its towers reflected sunlight off their mirrored surfaces, and its streets hummed with ambition. People moved with precision, unaware of the quiet storm of endings behind closed doors. Beautiful, ordered, unforgiving—it was a city that demanded everything and forgave nothing, a reflection of his own carefully constructed life.
He walked out onto the street, the sunlight harsh on his eyes, the air carrying both the scent of polished stone and the distant tang of the river. Every step echoed against the sidewalks, a rhythmic reminder of all the decisions, compromises, and sacrifices that had led him here. Divorce in Luna Empire was not scandalous—it was a quiet, unremarkable failure that whispered through hallways and disappeared just as quickly. Yet the weight of this failure pressed against his chest like a physical presence, heavier than any he had felt before.
Adjusting his cufflinks, Adrian realized that endings were never abrupt in this city. They were measured, deliberate, almost ceremonial. He had lost a marriage, a life he thought he knew, and yet the world moved forward as if nothing had changed. Every reflection in the glass towers reminded him that life demanded clarity, decisiveness, and the courage to face the next choice, no matter how small or painful.
He had no illusions that the emptiness would vanish. There would be days of silence, nights of solitude, moments when the absence of companionship would feel sharp. But endings also made space. Space for mistakes, for growth, for healing, and—perhaps someday—for something that resembled life again.
Adrian inhaled, letting the late-afternoon light wash over him. The city shimmered beneath him, indifferent and eternal, but in its reflection, he saw the faint glimmer of possibility. And for the first time in years, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could step into the light without fear.