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Ail was twenty-two when they won the award. It showed up on Avik's office television—uninvited, glowing, loud.
The fair-haired man didn't look up at first. His pen scratched against paper, methodical and neat, until the crowd's roar cracked through the silence of his office like glass under strain.
He turned.
And there they were.
Ailbhe. Gleaming. Crowned.
Avik sighed, long and exhausted, as though he'd aged ten years in five seconds.
He reached for the remote and clicked the television off with a sharp snap.
Silence returned.
He leaned back in his chair, pulling a half-spent Cuban cigarette from a silver tray, lit it with a flick of his lighter. The smoke curled upward in lazy spirals as he washed it down with lukewarm Earl Grey.
"Damn that kid…" he muttered, almost fondly. Almost.
"Even after all that—still came out on top."
He stared at the dead screen, frowning.
Then the bitterness caught up.
He crushed the cigarette halfway, grinding it into the ashtray like it had offended him. The taste of smoke clung to his teeth, but he'd already lost his appetite.
He stood, reaching for his trench coat, draping it across his shoulders like armor. The office air was too tight, too full of ghosts and applause.
Time to walk.
Avik's steps echoed against the cobblestone sidewalk as he moved with no direction in mind—just away. Away from the television. From the headlines. From the weight of a name he couldn't forget no matter how hard he tried.
Ailbhe.
He passed shops closed for the evening, windows fogged with breath and fashion. One mannequin wore a coat not unlike Ail's, dramatic and lined with glittering threads. He scoffed.
Then, he stopped.
A tiny television flickered behind the glass of an electronics store, grainy and cheap. The award show again. There they were, standing beneath golden lights, waving, smiling—every camera eating them alive like it was communion.
His ears twitched when he heard the name.
"Ailbhe."
He didn't blink.
They looked... unholy. Beautiful, yes. But distant. Ethereal. So far removed from the kid who used to steal apples and fall asleep beside half-packed suitcases.
If Avik were a madman, he might've loved them.
But Avik wasn't mad.
Just hollow.
He folded his hands in front of him, closed his eyes as the cold air kissed his cheeks. For a second, there was nothing. Just the sound of wind and faint music from inside the shop.
And then he whispered, quiet as a curse.
"I hope you suffer. And I'll meet you in hell."
No hatred in it. No fury. Just truth.
He adjusted his coat, straightened his spine, and gave the screen one last glance.
Ail's mouth moved on the screen, sound slightly delayed by the glass.
"Thank you... I've never been loved like this befo—"
The screen blinked out. Static. Gone.
Avik smiled, just a little. Not kind. Not cruel. Just a man with no more illusions.
And with a soft little skip in his step, he turned on his heel and walked back toward the office.
Back into silence.
Back into the world.