Alaric

A thick, oppressive silence hung in the apartment. Shards of a vase lay scattered across the living room parquet—yesterday's argument, from when he was flailing his arms and screaming that he didn't give a damn about anyone's feelings. The air was still heavy with his sharp perfume and the acrid scent of tobacco smoke. He was gone. His car had pulled away before dawn, leaving nothing behind but a draft from the slightly ajar front door.

The phone on the kitchen island vibrated, skittering across the glass. One notification. A second. The tenth. The screen flashed, cutting through the gloom. A push notification from a streaming service:

The Play button pulses on the screen. The cover is a grainy black-and-white photo: parted lips and fingers gripping a neck. The album title is that very same two-word phrase he used to whisper in her ear during their filthiest moments. One tap, and the room fills with a heavy, crushing bass, layered with his voice. It is cracking, on the verge of breaking, infinitely exhausted. He sings of secrets, of hysterics, of pleas not to leave that had echoed within these walls only yesterday. Now, millions are listening. The comment feed is already scrolling upward: “Bro, this is brutal,” “Who did he just destroy?”, “This is so dirty.”

The silence following the track rings in the ears. He didn't just pack his things. He took the most painful parts, wrapped them in beats, and put them on display for the world.

It is stifling and dark inside, lit only by the dim lamps behind the mixing console. He sits in a deep leather chair with his back to the entrance, lazily flipping a lighter in his hand. Hearing the lock click, he slowly turns around. Not a trace of guilt. Not a shred of fear. Only a heavy, predatory gaze and a crooked, almost mocking half-smile.

— Well, hello, — his voice is hoarse from the morning, but perfectly steady. — I thought you’d be sobbing into your pillow until noon. But you’re already here. What, did you feel the urge to personally thank me for the promo? Or do you want to hear the second track? It’s about how you lie to yourself while you're packing your bags, by the way.

He leans back, spreading his arms wide, like the ringmaster of this circus.

— You know, I didn't even expect you to actually show up. Are you here to cry, or are you finally going to do something worth my time?