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The silence that followed Sera's escape was devastating. Like loose, slow, and deep notes that mark the beginning of a chaotic and destructive event.
He took a deep breath, feeling his reality blur until the color of the walls seemed to melt away. He hadn't done anything wrong, had he? He'd only… only… What had he even done? They had finished composing their new single after spending weeks thinking about it; he hadn't at all tried to touch her face with his fingers or felt the urge to move a lock of her hair aside to contemplate her tired expression.
He paced the living room like a caged, furious animal, gritting his teeth and pulling at his hair. He had been so stupid to think that taking the step—or even feigning it—was sensible. No, it wasn't! He slammed his fist on the countertop, causing the cups drying on the rack to rattle against each other, emitting a small clinking sound.
He turned his head toward the sound, focusing on the pair of mugs. One was coal-black, except for the glossy finish that prevented anyone drinking from it from cutting their lips; the other was pink with a white floral pattern.
He was horrified by the sense of homelike in a pair of inanimate objects.
At first, he had no objection when she invited him to his apartment, and it even seemed like a good idea, offering her a quiet place to work without the noise of the studio or the prying eyes of her colleagues as they fooled around, like lying on the floor, rubbing their faces while drinking insane amounts of caffeine, or dissociating for a few minutes while sending memes to each other from less than a meter away.
Then came the memory of the selfies they uploaded to Instagram. Snapshots that weren't relevant but showed their daily suffering and the constant pauses they took to carry out their little ritual; a sip of liquefied grass that left a horrible aftertaste on his palate, but which he gradually stopped hating. Or short walks through the area where they'd get ice cream or lie on a bench in the shade, mulling over the direction of Viego's next single.
That closeness led them to have several publications under a name that mocked his mourning and made his friend's new musical career attractive.
And that was the problem that confused him so much. Living under the same roof without sharing a bed or a life had caused this. Allowing Sera to absorb all his impurities and filter them into clean, breathable air… And without asking for anything in return. He should be grateful, and he was, since none of his friends or acquaintances had had the consideration or the impulse to tell him, "Let's take your depression with a grain of salt and fix you." They simply ran away when Viego’s broken heart threatened to infect them.
But why was he angry at receiving the help he had always wanted? Perhaps because his own sadness prevented him from accepting it. Deep down, Viego knew he didn’t deserve Sera’s benevolence, for being the suffocating monster who never showed any consideration for his ex-wife; Not because he was aggressive, but because he didn't know how to listen to her and minimized her discomfort, clinging to the false facade of a "happy marriage"... And on top of that, he had the audacity to ask the reason for the divorce, out of the blue.
He had been a terrible husband, but the question everyone kept asking him hit him hard: «Why are you getting married at twenty-one?» To the naive and carefree mind of the Viego of that time, it was an insult. Questions with ulterior motives from people who didn't want to see him happy. Now, almost two years later, with a divorce behind him and a wife who didn't want to see him—or perhaps preferred no contact to avoid making things more difficult—he was beginning to understand that, one way or another, there was no point in being apathetic every day.
Okay, she was gone and had left a huge void in his heart, but what more could he do than respect her decision? He still loved her, but his head understood that, by being insistent, he was only skirting the dangerous edge of harassment rather than love. And the last thing he wanted was to ruin Isolde's life because of his stupidity and jeopardize his own musical career, for which he had fought so hard after leaving the family business.
And it truly frustrated him to be unable to get out of bed almost every day; there wasn't a single sunny day. He spent all his time with his head down, or with a few stray strands of hair covering his eyes, while giving the rest a dirty look, whether they were colleagues or passersby. His rough temper often drew him into arguments that could even turn physical. And for what? What was the point of all that violence? He no longer had any goals, any reason to fight or bribe anyone.
Perhaps the lack of ambition enraged him, causing the demon within to leave a lonely, thorny path behind him, preventing anyone from getting close.
Looking at the present, if he glanced in the mirror, he no longer saw the impulsive, stubborn kid, but a young man whom life had dealt a harsh blow, leaving him with the bittersweet experience of love. However, returning to the present—where he almost grabbed his mug and smashed it anywhere in the living room—he realized he hadn't had a fit of rage in a long time. When was the last one? Ah, when his clumsy friend clicked the publish button and his grief was witnessed by millions. But it wasn't just heartbreak; deep down, Viego knew it was a sinister tactic to elicit pity, even if a bit of his own feelings were in the lyrics.
But that wasn't important. Looking back, he remembered Sera's first day in the studio, how terrified she looked, almost cowering in on herself… He felt sorry for her and regarded her with the same condescension as his colleagues until she screamed, unleashing all the pent-up emotions that had plagued him that afternoon, leaving him stunned. How could someone so small and fragile emit such frequencies? And without any experience in this side of music? It was strange to see and hear her. She didn't fit in, and that oddness made him feel a certain aversion toward her.
Or perhaps it was because he couldn't bear the possibility that she might overshadow him beneath all those layers of hypocrisy. And he tried to tear them away, speaking fiercely to her until he tasted her poison for the first time. And it was addictive, even though she had plunged the dagger into his chest again.
Then began that false friendship while Sera grappled with the overwhelming urge to break the public veto until he realized she was using him. "He" and "used" in the same sentence? As surprising as it was... it actually happened. And it's a memory that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He was shocked to see that it wasn't him toying with the innocent Sera, but the other way around.
Then he had that stupid argument with her about her hypocrisy—a pointless fight, but a necessary one to polish the "chemistry they had while working"—and from that day on, they began to be honest. Viego wasn't too quick to overwhelm the poor girl with his darkness, but he did it gradually, seeing how well she adapted to his twisted sense of humor.
His mind wandered to the last couple of months; they'd done so much in such a short time: going for walks, eating together, suggesting new places to discover—taking her in the car, of course—dates. But Viego didn't feel like they were real dates… or maybe they were. He didn't know. The only thing he was aware of was the feeling he had every time he was with her, that sense of fulfillment that comes from knowing you have everything. Power.
That tingling in his hands that told him that, if they both wanted it, they could conquer the world. An idea he'd never had with Isolde; after all, their relationship was more domestic than ambitious, limited to composing love songs that only had one listener instead of watching him tear his vocal cords apart. He still didn't understand why she didn't like heavy metal, with how expressive it is… Seraphine, on the other hand, shouted along with him, and they both stood up to each other regardless of who was right. And here they were… Well, here he was, because she had practically run away. Did it really have to end like this?
Viego realized that being melancholic every day wasn't productive, and that, while working with Sera on his new composition, he saw how stubbornness and selfishness had plunged him into misery, leading him once again to the conclusion that this wasn't what he truly wanted.
This reflection led him to do something he never thought possible: remove all of Isolde's sewing supplies.
A task that took him a couple of hours that night, muttering to himself where the threads would go, which box would hold the fabrics… And most importantly, where to store them. Perhaps he was ready to put an end to this dark chapter that had held him captive for so long, to his story, but he wasn't going to throw her things away. At most, he would find them a place in the basement until he knew what to do with them.
Seeing the old sewing room empty sent a shiver of uncertainty through him. He had removed the mementos, stored them in boxes and hidden them in a dark corner of his house, however… the altar was empty, leaving only a white room with dark curtains through which the dim light from the streetlights on the other side filtered in.
Once again, he found himself reflecting on the past, the last five months. A long stretch where he hadn't found himself crying himself into the night or depriving himself of typing his ex's name on social media. It was a huge breakthrough, one he wouldn't have achieved without Seraphine's help.
Serafín, he corrected himself. Thinking about her made him feel confused. She was his friend—someone he had hated with all his heart at first—but who had turned out to be nice, even funny. But that wasn't the answer he wanted to give himself. Yes, she is his friend, someone with whom he connected unexpectedly quickly to the point of having no problem invading her personal space and vice versa.
It was just that his head wasn't sounding the alarm that he might be being too intense, and that was the root of his confusion.
Being with her… being by her side doing nothing meant not having obsessive thoughts, not thinking about how miserable he was. He never mentioned his ex in her presence, and if he did, Sera would bring him back to reality, either by telling the most offensive joke someone so innocent could say, giving him a friendly punch on the shoulder, or pulling his horns.
That last example made his eyes widen. Had anyone ever done that to that part of his spectral anatomy? He doubted it; he hadn't even let Isolde see it… When he snapped back to reality, his right hand was on the part of his head where one of his horns should have been, and that made him blush.
It was a stupid gesture, a pointless action, but quite effective, saving him from sinking back into the past.
Maybe he did have a little affection for Seraphine.
…
What the hell! Seraphine was the only person with whom he felt he wasn't imposing anything, but rather the opposite! Being with her these past five months had helped him to listen, to be more considerate of his friends, and to understand that you can't have everything even if you have several zeros to the right of your bank account, reminding him that money didn't fill the void he felt when he went to bed or when he woke up.
What good was being a millionaire if the only thing his heart longed for was gone, and he had no more motivations?
A lie. He did have a motivation, and it was written on his living room table, finally finished after months of stagnation. And again, thanks to Seraphine; the girl had trapped him in her heart-shaped box, playing the innocent—even if she truly didn't think of them as anything more—taking control of their strange relationship.
Seraphine had the power to do whatever she wanted with him, even destroy him, but Viego didn't care. Because his pink-haired companion's ambition and authority were addictive.
He no longer cared if Sera was lying to him with all those mixed signals, or if things were going to end badly. He would stop feigning indifference around her and throw himself into it completely, ignoring his past, forgetting his controversies.
Now, his sinful confession, the motivation he would fight for, would be her.
The click of the latch as the basement door closed echoed off the walls like a gunshot in an empty church. It was done; fabrics stored away, threads arranged by color and texture as if nobody gave a fucking shit. He'd done the right thing, hadn't he? He'd been the mature man everyone expected him to be after the divorce.
What utter stupidity.
He shuffled up the steps, with empty hands and a new room in his house. Returning to the living room, Sera's absence hit him right in the gut, harder than any of the blows he'd received on the streets or at school. He looked at the empty sofa where she used to sit, chewing on a pen. He looked at the floor where they used to disconnect, staring at their phones from less than a meter away. Nothing. Only clean air that felt strangely cold.
The house truly felt dead in her absence.
He ran his hands over his face, pulling at his hair in frustration, and a bitter, hoarse laugh escaped his chest. Had he really spent hours—even days—trying to convince himself that this was “good working chemistry”? For the first time, Viego felt he was no longer the center of attention; no longer the figure trying to mold his partner under the false label of a happy marriage or trying to impose his will. With Seraphine, the power had changed hands radically, and if she had been using him in these weeks, he was no longer going to complain; instead, he would let her use him until he broke.
Honestly, he didn't give a damn. He didn't give a damn at all.
He would tell his wounded pride to go to hell, he would tell the world to go jump in a lake if they thought he was losing his mind again or if Sera herself was horrified by his intensity. Friendship? What a ridiculous word, so small and meaningless. He didn't want her friendship. He wanted all the fucking chaos she brought with her, her poison—her sweet, addictive poison—in her voice, her screams… He wanted the soft purr he felt in his chest every time she looked at him without breaking eye contact, he wanted to feel that tingling of power that filled his hands when they both struck iconic poses for the camera, and for the world to see how devastating they could be…
He walked to the kitchen counter, grabbing the dry mugs from the dish rack. His friend held the keys to his emotional stability, and he hadn't even realized it until she started slowly settling into his place. When she was away, or when he simply didn't hear from her, he felt all the progress he'd made crumble, and his heart become contaminated again.
He didn't give a shit about admitting that the monster had been tamed, that he was completely defenseless, even naked, before the girl who had just fled his apartment. His redemption wasn't forced, as most of his colleagues would have bet, but voluntary. He was willing to kneel before Sera, whether she asked him to or not. Nor did he have the urge to possess her to fill the void in his ego; on the contrary, he sought her to rule him, because she was the only one who could stand up to him and not back down, and shout with him.
It was past two in the morning, and Viego wasn't sleepy. How could he be tired when he had discovered what would possibly be his new religion? So he took a quick shower, prepared some matcha just as he had seen Sera do—except he added a considerable amount of vanilla extract and sweetener—and locked himself in his study, but not before grabbing the pages with the final version of Black Honey.
He was inspired, energized by that revelation, and he did what he did best: channel his devotion into a new piece. Dedicated only to her, to his Serafín, the person for whom he had buried his past in the basement, the one who made him stop his outbursts of anger, the angel who had cleansed him of impurities, becoming the mistress of what little remained of him.
He began with random words, a jumble of crossed-out words that, as the moon moved higher in the sky, gradually took shape until he had a lyric that intensely explored obsession, sin, and divinity. Viego intended to plunge his listeners into a downward spiral, an uncontrollable fall into the unknown and the forbidden, a fall that drove him to lose himself in a new, consuming fixation, one that intensified desire with each passing moment.
The grayish light of dawn streamed through the window, bathing the studio in a cold, almost clinical hue. He hadn't slept a wink, but the heavy apathy that usually chained him to bed was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he felt a strange, sharp mental clarity.
He went to the kitchen to make himself another matcha—punishing his palate—and his eyes went straight to the counter, where the pink cup with white flowers still sat, gleaming in the dim morning light. Yesterday he had been horrified by the domesticity of the scene, but now, with a clear head, he saw it differently. He glanced at the closed basement door. Down below was his past, packed away and banished because she, with her mere existence, had made the shadow of his ex seem like a sad anecdote.
His mind, tired but strangely lucid, began to weave a twisted logic. He wasn't falling into the same mistakes again; this wasn't like when he was twenty-one; it wasn't the blind insistence that had suffocated his ex-wife because he hadn't known how to listen to her. No. What he felt for Seraphine was different because Sera was a different person. Isolde hadn't seen him at his worst, and if they ever argued, he usually fled before he could unleash his fury. Sera, on the other hand, stood her ground, truly shouted at him—demanding him to stay—shared his twisted sense of humor, and wasn't afraid of the dark frequencies emanating from his chest. She had changed him without asking.
If she had entered his life to filter out all his impurities and transform them into breathable air, how could he let her go? He would be ungrateful. A fool.
He reflected that her flight the day before hadn't been rejection, but fear. Fear of the intensity—of his passion—fear of the power they unleashed when they were less than a meter apart. She was too pure, perhaps not so fragile, and she had been frightened to see that he was willing to lay the world at her feet. But Viego didn't see the evil in his own fixation; he saw it as a shield. If his rough, violent temper only served to wear him down on stage or in stupid arguments, now it had a real purpose. He was going to channel all that destructive force in one direction: her. To take care of his deity.
He left the half-finished cup of matcha on the counter. There was no more confusion, and no more doubt. He stood in front of the hall mirror and stared at himself. The impulsive kid who'd married at twenty-one on a whim was gone; so was the apathetic figure who used to feign pity on social media to camouflage his wounded ego. There was something new in his eyes, a cold, almost religious focus.
He brushed the stray locks of hair away from his face with a curt gesture and grabbed the car keys. His palms burned with that tingling sensation only she knew how to awaken.
If Sera was afraid of the black mark he wore on his chest, he would make sure to teach her that monsters also know how to kneel. He wasn't going to suffocate her, nor demand that she conform to an empty, poorly labeled shell as he'd tried in the past. He was going to adore her. He was going to be the only sinner willing to burn down The Threshold, his music career, and the entire world if anyone dared come between her and his music.
Viego didn't know how to love in shades of gray. For him, love was a cataclysm, an explosion of heavy frequencies where they faced each other without fear of breaking. And if she was the clean air that filtered his impurities, he would become her most dangerous devotee.
He opened the door to his apartment, leaving behind the immaculate living room and the echo of his old ghosts buried in the basement. The devastating silence Sera had left behind when she fled no longer felt like defeat. Now it felt like the waiting period. The deep, imposing notes before the real show begins.
She had run to escape him, but Viego gave a dark smile as he headed to the car. He didn't understand how someone so small could exude so much power, but he was going to make sure everyone knew. He was going to find her.
God was a woman, she had pink hair, and he had just found his new religion.