___________________________________________________
The parties never stopped.
They couldn't. Not now. Not when everything—everything—depended on the lights, the crowds, the noise. The press needed something to write about. The world needed something to watch. If Ail didn't give it to them, someone else would.
They hosted in mansions with ceilings so high the chandeliers swayed in their own breeze. People came dressed in silk and secrets, bringing gossip wrapped in laughter. There were mountains of wine, rivers of music, and fireworks that split the sky with envy.
And Ail?
They stood in the center of it all.
The star.
Cameras loved them. Strangers adored them. Lovers fell like petals at their feet. They were everything—grace, beauty, mystery, wit. A living constellation stitched into the fabric of the world.
They had won.
Every award. Every headline. Every heart that mattered.
So why did they keep seeing Shenqi's face in the crowd?
Not just hers. Avik's crooked smile, the twins' chaotic laughter. The Mentor's eyes—tired but knowing. Bāgha's warm silence. Ghosts, all of them. Living or dead, it didn't matter. They haunted Ail the same way.
They leaned against the marble edge of a high balcony, staring down at the world they'd conquered. Flashes below burst like fireflies—paparazzi desperate to catch a glimpse, to freeze a moment of this life that no one else could touch.
Ail tilted their head.
"Should I jump?" they whispered.
A joke. Maybe. Maybe not.
Wind tugged at their clothes, brushing their face with the soft fingers of memory. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoed. Somewhere closer, music throbbed.
But all Ail could hear was her voice.
"You will regret it."
"You will stand at the top, but the wind is cold up there."
"Be careful, my star."
Ail's jaw tightened.
She had always said things like that. Wrapped warnings in love. Wrapped love in silence. She'd believed in Ail more than anyone else—and that's exactly what made her unbearable.
Because she had been right.
But Ail wouldn't give her that.
They turned back, slipping into the warmth of the ballroom with the practiced ease of someone who had never faltered. The chandeliers bathed them in gold. A cheer erupted. Glasses clinked. People swirled around like planets drawn to their sun.
Hands touched theirs. Voices called their name. Compliments spilled from painted mouths like honey.
Ail nodded, smiled, laughed in all the right places.
They were used to this. They needed this.
And yet…
They couldn't see anyone clearly.
Instead, they saw Shenqi. In the back, by the mirrors. Barefoot, hands curled around a deck of cards she could never properly shuffle. Her eyes didn't accuse. They didn't forgive either. Just stared.
Ail blinked.
She was gone.
They pressed a hand to their temple, pretending it was just the drink. The tenth? Twelfth? It didn't matter. The glass in their other hand was full, untouched, the same as the last one.
They walked past their guests, faces blurring into one another. One of their lovers caught their arm—a new one, beautiful, eager, disposable.
"Stay awhile," they said, lips near Ail's ear.
Ail stayed. For a moment.
Then they left.
Not the room. Just the moment. Just the illusion that this was enough.
They stood before the floor-length mirror in the hallway outside, watching themselves closely.
Their face was flawless. Their outfit immaculate. Their expression unreadable.
They were everything.
And yet, they stared as if trying to find something behind their own eyes.
They reached up, touching a golden earring.
A star.
A souvenir from a life that no longer existed.
"You don't miss them," Ail whispered to the reflection. "You just hate that they left before you could."
The mirror said nothing.
Because deep down, Ail knew: they would never admit regret. That would make it real. That would mean acknowledging that all of this—the fame, the applause, the noise—wasn't enough to quiet the silence.
So they adjusted the earring. Smoothed their collar. Straightened their spine.
And walked back inside.
The party continued.
It always did.
And Ail, center of the world, smiled.
Just as they had learned to.
Just as they always would.