Warfare Augmented Intelligent Frame Unit

Chapter 164 - The Final Cry

Chapter 164 - The Final Cry

The afternoon slipped away quicker than I expected. The sun, a glowing orange disk, leaned low over the blue ocean horizon, painting the waves with streaks of fire and gold. 

A gentle breeze rolled across the shore, rustling through the coconut palms so they swayed like dancers keeping time with the music. The laughter and chatter from the party had begun to thin out, the atmosphere softening as the celebration wound down. 

The bar lights flickered on, casting a warm glow over the crowd gathering for one last drink before night fully claimed the sky.

We had already traded our swimsuits for semi-formal clothes. I buttoned up a crisp white long-sleeved shirt and slipped into brown slacks, still carrying a trace of salt and sand clinging to me. My friends arrived in their own styles—bright dresses, neatly pressed shirts, casual blazers—each of us half-polished but still carrying the air of a beach day.

Together we drifted toward the bar, where the sweet scent of fruit and the sharp bite of alcohol mixed in the air. As I joined the queue, fate had me standing right behind Myrrh. She had already shed her beach look and now wore a flowing white dress tied neatly with a corset, the fabric catching the faint gold of the sunset. When her eyes found mine, she lifted a hand in a quick, playful wave. I returned it with a small smile before stepping into line behind her.

"Hey, don't drink too much, okay?" Myrrh said, wagging her finger at me with mock seriousness.

"Okay, mommy," I answered dryly, though the corners of my lips betrayed a smirk. "Look, it's your turn now."

"Ah, right." She stepped forward, giving her order with the kind of confidence that suggested this wasn't her first time at a bar. Moments later, the bartender slid across a sparkling French 75—bubbly, golden, and elegant. The same drink she had chosen during our last "date."

But before she could take a sip, a shadow fell across her. Ephraim appeared, clutching a crimson cocktail that looked almost as tense as his smile.

"Uh, Myrrh. Can I talk to you for a second?" His voice carried a hesitant edge, as though he was both hopeful and afraid.

Myrrh's brow furrowed slightly, the light in her expression dimming. Then her gaze shifted to me. Her eyes lingered, wordless but heavy with meaning. Was she silently asking me to step in—to play the part of her pretend boyfriend again, to shield her from Ephraim's approach? The thought weighed on me. Yet as much as I wanted to protect her, I knew it wasn't my place. This was her past, her history.

And me? I was nothing more than the placeholder she sometimes leaned on. A fake boyfriend.

"Go." I gave a small nod. 

For an instant, Myrrh's blue eyes caught the light, glittering like fragments of glass on water. Yet I couldn't read them—was that shimmer excitement, relief, or the fragile glint of tears she fought to hold back? 

Whatever it was, she turned away before I could tell, facing Ephraim with a hesitant nod. Without another word, the two of them walked off together. Myrrh's shoulders drooped, and though Ephraim spoke, she never once looked up—her gaze stayed fixed on the sand beneath her feet, as though every step was too heavy to bear.

Only when they disappeared into the crowd did I realize the bartender was staring at me expectantly. It was my turn, but I'd been standing there like a statue.

A sharp tap landed on the back of my head.
"Hey, slowpoke! Give your order already!" Jordan barked, half-annoyed, half-amused.

"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, shaken from my haze.