Bleeding Through the Veil of Scars

𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚜

The screech of tires against the asphalt split the silence of the night as I tore through the streets.

I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. 

Every second that passed was stained with her voice, her accusations, her tears.

Serafina had looked at me like I was a monster. No—worse. Like I was someone she never really knew.

She had stormed out of the Blind Tiger like the air itself had betrayed her. 

No coat, no hesitation—just fire and heartbreak and fury wrapped into one soul-crushing expression. 

The same expression I'd memorized far too well over the years.
And I'd let her go.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaw locked so hard I could hear my teeth creak. 

The pen drive she'd tossed at me before leaving still sat in the passenger seat like a ticking time bomb. 

I'd watched the contents—hell, I'd watched them twice.

And there was nothing. 

Just Eleanor reading, walking, occasionally glancing over her shoulder. 

No treason. No calls to the Kremlin. No secret meetings. Just a girl... existing.

But Serafina saw through it. 

Or maybe I didn't see what I was supposed to.

Guilt chewed a hole through my chest, sharp and fast. I'd doubted her. 

I let her bleed out her fury in front of me, blade in hand, and I hadn't stopped her—not truly. 

Just defended myself like a coward. Like I didn't deserve the cut.

I pulled into the driveway with a screech, gravel scattering under the tires. 

The house loomed quiet, its windows still glowing. Nothing had changed. 

And yet, everything had.

I rushed up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time until I reached her door. 

My knuckles rapped against it before I even realized I was knocking.

"Serafina?" I breathed out. "Please."

I twisted the handle and pushed it open.

The room was untouched.

Her jacket still draped on the chair. Her perfume lingered faintly in the air like ghostlight. 

A few books were scattered on the nightstand—Russian Poems Translated, a half-read volume of Inferno. 

Her shoes were still by the foot of the bed, neatly lined up the way she always left them.