BLURRY | SPRINA

Chapter Twenty-Five

The sun hung high in the afternoon sky, casting warm rays over Port Charles as Trina weaved through the bustling streets. She had been running errands, minding her business, when she turned the corner—

And bumped into him.

Jasper.

The impact was light, just a brush of shoulders, but it was enough to make her step back in surprise. For a second, she froze, blinking up at him as if she hadn't expected to see him again.

And maybe she hadn't.

Jasper was about to keep walking—he should have kept walking—but then Trina spoke.

"Jas—" She hesitated before offering a small, uncertain smile. "Hey."

Her voice was soft, casual, like nothing had changed. Like she hadn't ripped him apart without looking back.

Jasper's stomach twisted.

Her stance was open, her expression too easy—like she genuinely believed they could stand here and make small talk, like she wasn't the same person Esme had told him about. The same girl who had chosen someone else.

Something sharp and ugly cracked through him.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You don't have to do that."

Trina frowned. "Do what?"

"Pretend." His jaw tightened, blue eyes dark and unreadable. "You made it clear you don't want me, Trina. You don't have to act like you care now."

Trina's face fell. "Jasper, it's not—"

But he didn't let her finish.

"You did want him, though, right?" His words were laced with something dangerous—anger, betrayal, something deeper he didn't want to name. "Enough to let him touch you? Kiss you?"

Trina stiffened and inhaled sharply, guilt flickering across her features.

Jasper let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

For a second, she looked like she wanted to say something, to defend herself, to explain. But whatever excuse she had didn't matter.

Jasper wasn't interested in hearing it.

Without another word, he stepped around her and walked away, leaving Trina standing in the afternoon sun.

_______

Spencer pulled his coat tighter against the cold as he stepped off the launch onto Spoon Island. Wyndemere loomed in the distance, its gothic silhouette cutting sharply against the moonlit sky. The waters surrounding the island were eerily still, the air thick with a quiet unease that settled deep in his chest.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. It had been a long day at Cassadine Industries, filled with meetings and contract negotiations that left him with a headache. He just wanted a drink, a hot shower, and maybe a chance to clear his head before morning.

But the second he reached the grand doors of Wyndemere, something in his gut twisted.

A warning.

Instinct.

His breath slowed. His body tensed.

Without thinking, Spencer pivoted—just as a bullet cut through the night air.

The silencer muffled the shot, but the force still sent wood splintering from the doorframe. If he hadn't moved...

He didn't waste time.

Spencer ran.

The sound of his own footsteps echoed in his ears as he sprinted away from the estate, down the winding stone path toward the docks. Another shot. This one closer.