1.The Silence of Cold Silver

The studio was a graveyard of reflections. Aria moved through the cramped space with the practiced grace of someone who knew exactly where the sharp edges were hidden. Her hands, calloused and stained with the silvering chemicals of her trade, hovered over a Victorian-era pier glass that had seen better centuries. It was her job to make the world see itself clearly again, even if she spent most of her own life avoiding the very same thing. The air was thick with the scent of turpentine and old dust, a dry, suffocating perfume that she found more comforting than the fresh, rain-scented air of Veridian City.

She adjusted her apron, the heavy canvas scratching against her throat. Beneath the fabric, just under her left ribs, lay the reason for her solitude. The scar was a jagged, raised line of translucent tissue, shaped like a lightning strike that had frozen mid-air. For ten years, it had been a silent tenant on her body. It didn't itch. It didn't ache. It was simply a reminder of a night she had spent a decade trying to delete from her memory. In Veridian, they called it the Mark of the Shattered. It appeared when you broke someone, or when they broke you, so deeply that the soul's distress bled into the physical realm. Most people wore their badges of tragic honor, but Aria kept hers under layers of silk and resolve.

Her cell phone buzzed on the workbench, vibrating against a tray of glass cutters. She ignored it. It would be Clara, reminding her about the opening at the Argent Gallery. Clara was the only person who still tried to pull Aria out of the silver-tinted shadows. She was a woman of vibrant colors and loud truths, a stark contrast to Aria’s monochromatic existence. Clara didn't believe in dormant scars. She believed that everything buried eventually rotted or grew, and she was determined to see which way Aria would turn.

Aria picked up a polishing cloth and began to work in the corner of the mirror. She watched her own reflection emerge from the grime. Her eyes were tired, the dark circles a testament to late nights spent obsessing over the perfect curve of a frame. She looked like a woman who had successfully vanished while standing in plain sight. That was the goal, after all. To be the restorer, the one who fixed the view for others while remaining invisible to herself. But the phone wouldn't stop. On the fifth buzz, Aria sighed and picked it up.

«Aria, if you don't show up tonight, I am coming over there with a hammer,» Clara’s voice was sharp, but the underlying affection was unmistakable. «It’s the Julian event. Everyone who matters will be there. You need the commissions, and frankly, you need to breathe air that hasn't been through a filter.»

«I have work, Clara,» Aria replied, her voice raspy from hours of silence. «This mirror is for the Sterling estate. They don't care about gallery openings.»

«The Sterlings will be at the gallery, you idiot,» Clara countered. «Put on that black dress that makes you look like a dangerous secret and get here. I’ve already told the curator you’re coming. Don't make me a liar. »

Aria looked at the scar through the thin fabric of her shirt. It was cold. It was always cold. She felt a sudden, inexplicable shiver, a premonition that the walls of her studio were no longer thick enough to keep the world out.

«Fine,» Aria said, closing her eyes. «I’ll be there in an hour.»

The Argent Gallery was a temple of white marble and harsh neon. It was the kind of place where people spoke in hushed tones about the aesthetic of suffering while sipping champagne that cost more than Aria’s rent. She felt like an interloper as she moved through the crowd, her black silk dress clinging to her frame like a second, more protective skin. She kept her arms crossed over her chest, a subconscious shield for the mark on her ribs.

The air in the gallery was charged with a different kind of energy. In Veridian, these events were more than social gatherings; they were hunting grounds. People watched each other’s necks, wrists, and collarbones, looking for the telltale glimmer of a scar. A reactivated mark was a sign of passion, of a connection so volatile it couldn't be contained. It was a scandal and a status symbol all at once.

Aria found Clara near a series of abstract sculptures. Clara looked stunning in a deep red jumpsuit, her own scar—a delicate swirl on her inner wrist—bare for the world to see.

«You actually came,» Clara said, handing Aria a glass of something pale and bubbling. «You look like you’re waiting for an execution, but at least you’re here.»

«I’m just looking for the Sterlings,» Aria muttered, her eyes scanning the room. «Then I’m leaving.»

«The Sterlings are in the back, talking to Julian,» Clara said, her tone shifting to something more serious. «But Aria, there’s someone else here. Someone you haven't seen in a long time.»

Aria’s heart gave a strange, erratic thump. «Who?»

Clara didn't have to answer. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees, or perhaps it was just Aria’s internal thermostat failing. A path seemed to clear in the crowd, not because of status, but because of a palpable, radiating tension.

He stood by the far wall, framed by a triptych of shattered glass art. Bastian. He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his face etched with a hardness that hadn't been there when they were twenty. He was dressed in charcoal gray, looking every bit the man, the tabloids called the Architect of Ruin. He was known for his brilliance in structural design and his absolute lack of empathy in personal matters. He was a man who built skyscrapers and tore down people.

Aria froze. The champagne in her glass trembled. She hadn't seen him since the night the world ended for them both, the night the marks had appeared like brands of shame.

Then, it happened.

It started as a low hum in her marrow, a vibration that synchronized with the beating of her heart. Then, the coldness of her scar vanished, replaced by a bloom of warmth. Within seconds, the warmth turned into a searing, white-hot heat. It felt as though a branding iron had been pressed against her ribs from the inside out.