Chapter Text
It had been seven days since the premiere. Seven days since the rain, the music, and the fleeting freedom of Boothill’s arms. Seven days since Robin had chosen to speak up — to push back, to tell Fisher no.
And it had only made everything worse.
She sat curled on the edge of the bed, tucked into the farthest corner of the room. Her knees hugged tightly to her chest, arms locked around them as if they were the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely. The curtains were drawn shut, the lights off — just the soft blue glow of early evening leaking in through the cracks. Time passed strangely now, in fractured pieces and flickers.
Fisher’s voice filtered in from the other room, sharp and professional. Too smooth. Too calm.
“No, she’ll be there. Push the radio spot to noon, then double-book the studio time… yes, she’ll manage.” A pause, a false laugh. “Of course she’s thrilled.”
Robin clenched her jaw and pressed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear him. She could always hear him. The voice that once smoothed its way around her dreams now scraped against her like sandpaper. Her head throbbed in sync with every syllable.
Her arms were a mosaic of bruises — pale yellow blooming into purple-blue, fingerprints blooming in painful echoes down her sides. Some from the arguments. Some from the silences. All of them reminders.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, breath shaky, skin clammy. Her tears didn’t fall like they used to — not in great sobs or wrenching gasps. Now they just sat there, glassy and silent in the corners of her eyes, like they were too tired to fall.
Boothill felt like a distant fever dream. A trick of the light. A song she’d once heard but couldn’t remember the words to. Some days she convinced herself it never happened at all — that the dance under the awning, the pinkies brushing, the hug that made her forget everything else — had just been a cruel fantasy her brain spun up to protect itself.
But she still had his jacket. It hung on the back of her chair, wrinkled and rain-stained, untouched since the night she came home wrapped in it. Sometimes, when Fisher was gone, she held it against her chest like armor, trying to remember what it felt like to be held without fear.
Fisher ended the call in the other room with a clipped goodbye. The sound of his shoes across the floor made her flinch, even though he hadn’t opened the door yet. Her schedule, her life, her body — all under his command. All spinning out of control.
Robin curled in tighter, her breath catching. Somewhere deep inside her, a quiet, burning ember still lived — something stubborn and half-alive. But right now, it was buried beneath the bruises and the silence and the weight of what she couldn’t say.
All she could do was survive. One more day.
But that’s what she’d been telling herself every day since the dance. Since that heartbeat of freedom. Since Boothill vanished into the night, and Fisher’s hand closed like a vice around her life again.
The confrontation in the alley had barely ended before the drive home turned cold and quiet — the silence between them thick with rage. Then came the first fight. Then the next. Each one louder, meaner, tighter in its grip. Words like shackles. Hands like threats.
And still, she’d clung to that spark of the alleyway, as if remembering Boothill could somehow keep her from breaking.
She didn’t hear Fisher insert the key. She only saw the doorknob turn.
Her breath hitched.
The door opened with a mechanical click, and Fisher stepped inside like he owned the air. He barely looked at her, his lips already curled into something sour and impatient. The ever-present phone buzzed in his hand, another message, another deal.
“I’ve had to clean up a lot of your mess this week,” he said by way of greeting, voice low and clipped. “So you’re going to do exactly what’s on your schedule — no complaints.”
Robin didn’t speak. Her arms remained locked around her knees, her chin tucked low. She stared at the rug as if it might give her the strength to get through this minute, then the next.
Fisher dropped a printed schedule onto the bed beside her with a thud. The page was filled from top to bottom — color-coded blocks of time with no spaces between.
“Back-to-back interviews tomorrow. Studio time after. Late-night shoot on Thursday. We moved the magazine spread up — that’s Friday morning. You’ll sleep in the car between.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall like he was doing her a favor.
Robin didn’t move. Her mind barely registered the words, only the cold cruelty behind them. Torture dressed up as opportunity. A schedule designed to break her spirit in the name of productivity.
“You’re lucky they still want to see your face,” he added flatly.
That ember inside her sparked again — faint, but still burning. A flicker of defiance.
They don’t want to see me, she thought. They want to see the version of me you created. And I don’t even know who that is anymore.
But she didn’t say it aloud. Not yet. She couldn’t afford another argument. Another bruise.
Fisher turned and left without waiting for a response, the door shutting behind him with quiet finality.
Robin didn’t cry. She just sat there, eyes dry and stinging, the walls closing in around her. The schedule beside her felt like a sentence.
She reached for Boothill’s jacket and pulled it into her lap, burying her fingers in the damp, worn fabric. He was a ghost now — but even ghosts were more comforting than the cage Fisher had built around her.
She clutched it tighter, whispering the same thing she had whispered every night since that dance:
Please come back.
Robin sat still for a long time after the door closed.
Fisher’s footsteps faded, and silence settled back over the apartment like dust on a forgotten shelf. The silence should’ve felt like peace, but it was only heavy — thick and suffocating. Stillness didn't mean safety anymore. It meant bracing herself for what came next.
She pulled Boothill’s jacket into her arms, hugging it tightly, burying her face in the soft lining. The scent of rain and smoke and something warmer — something kind — still clung to it, though it was fading fast. Boothill was what her heart wanted, that much she knew. But in this moment, aching and raw and exhausted, what she really needed was someone else entirely.
She needed Sunday.
The name bloomed like a sigh in her chest. Her older brother, her anchor. Always a step ahead, always watching out for her, even now from thousands of miles away. He was traveling, again — working, representing the family at some distant event she couldn’t remember the name of. He’d picked up the responsibilities Gopher Wood had left behind, just so Robin could chase her music dreams without worry.
And she hadn’t told him anything.
She curled tighter into herself, ashamed. She could call him — she knew how. A number committed to memory, a voice that would drop everything if he heard her crying. But her hand didn’t reach for the phone.
She didn’t want to be a bother.
Sunday had sacrificed so much for her. Every stage, every tour, every vocal coach, every late-night conversation convincing their family she was meant for this — that it was worth it. That she was worth it.
How could she admit now that she had ended up like this? Trapped. Hurt. Owned. That the man she was with didn’t love her art, didn’t love her, only what she represented. Sunday would hate Fisher — she knew that. He would see through him in a heartbeat. His temper would flare, his fists would clench, and his voice would shake in that way it did when something hurt too deeply.
But worse — much worse — what if Sunday looked at her differently after?
What if he saw weakness?
Robin’s lip trembled. She stared down at the floor through the fringe of her hair, a whisper of a thought creeping in:
Would he blame me? For staying? For not fighting harder?
Her throat tightened. The silence of the room grew colder. She tucked Boothill’s jacket tighter around herself like a shield.
She didn’t want to imagine the disappointment in her brother’s eyes. Not now. Not on top of everything else.
So she stayed still, gripping the fading memory of one man while craving the unconditional love of another. The kind of love that didn’t want anything from her except her happiness.
She missed Sunday more than she could say. But the fear of his judgment was a wall she wasn’t ready to climb. Not yet.
Instead, she whispered into the quiet:
“Please… just let me be someone he can still be proud of.”
Robin moved through the week like a shadow — present, polished, perfectly posed — but hollow beneath the surface.
She followed the schedule Fisher laid out for her, each day strung together like beads on a tight wire. Photoshoots, interviews, rehearsals, surprise appearances — all back-to-back with no rest, no breath, no room for herself. Her body obeyed on autopilot: she smiled when told, said the right things, hit the right notes. The image Fisher built was alive and radiant.
But behind every flashbulb, he stood in the wings, pulling invisible strings.
A hand on her lower back that looked loving in photos, but left bruises when they got home. A word whispered in her ear between takes — something sharp enough to make her flinch, masked by a perfect camera-ready laugh. If she stumbled, if she missed a cue or blinked too long in an interview, there was hell to pay. The flip of a switch was all it took: charming manager one moment, furious tyrant the next.
“You’re lucky I keep you relevant,” he spat one night as she staggered through the apartment after a 14-hour day. “Don’t start believing your own hype. *I* built this.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat was too raw. Her bones felt made of dust.
Every night she came home more drained than the last, muscles aching, head pounding, her mind full of static. The jacket Boothill had given her stayed hidden in the closet now — folded carefully beneath her old hoodie, the only secret she still owned.
There were moments, flickers in between chaos, where she saw glimpses of herself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Eyes ringed with exhaustion. Lips trembling just before the camera shutter snapped. Her body no longer felt like hers — it belonged to the machine Fisher fed.
Still, she kept up appearances. She let the makeup team hide the fatigue. Let the PR people spin her silence as “mysterious” and her melancholy as “artistic.” They called her brilliant, complex, elegant.
No one saw the bruises. No one heard the screaming.
Except her.
And always, she feared what might happen if someone *did*. What would they do — write headlines? Ask questions Fisher would silence? Or worse, say nothing at all?
She was a product, dressed in glitter and gold, marketed for mass appeal. And the worst part was, she knew how to sell it. She knew how to smile through pain and make it beautiful.
Robin performed her exhaustion like it was part of the act — a tortured artist in high heels, dragging her weary body from one stage to the next. But every day, the strings tightened, until her own thoughts became harder to hold onto.
Sleep was a luxury. Freedom, a fantasy. Boothill, a ghost.
And Robin… Robin was running out of herself.
It was well past midnight when Robin finally slipped away.
No calls. No fittings. No cameras. Just silence. The kind that echoed too loudly if you listened too long.
She sat at the foot of her closet, knees drawn to her chest, Boothill’s jacket wrapped tightly around her shoulders like a lifeline. The fabric was worn now — softer from the rain, still carrying the faintest trace of him if she breathed in deep enough. Smoke, soap, and something warm she didn’t have the words for.
It was fading.
That scent — his scent — the only real thing she had left of him, and even that was slipping through her fingers. She clutched the collar closer to her face, buried her nose in the fabric and inhaled like it might sew her soul back together. But the more she breathed in, the more she felt herself unraveling.
Her eyes stung with unshed tears. Her chest ached with longing so sharp it made her fold in on herself. This wasn’t just about missing him. It was something deeper — a soul-deep cry for connection, for safety, for something or someone to remind her that she was more than what Fisher had turned her into.
She thought of the alley. Of his arms around her. Of his voice, soft and low, calling her “dove” like she was something fragile but free.
Now, she was just fragile.
Her fingers curled into the lining of the jacket. Her breath shook.
“Boothill,” she whispered, the name barely audible in the quiet of the room. It was foolish, she knew. There was no way he could hear her. He might be miles away, in another city, another world. Maybe he’d already forgotten her — decided she wasn’t worth waiting for.
But I waited for you, she thought. I still am.
And beneath that ache — that burning, desperate yearning — lay something else: the guilt. The heavy, creeping dread that came with the thought of her brother.
Sunday.
She hadn’t texted him in days. She knew he was busy, working hard, representing the family — making sure her dream stayed intact. He had fought for her when no one else had. Sacrificed his own dreams, his own peace, so she could stand in the spotlight.
And she was ruining it. Letting herself be controlled. Owned. Bruised. Silent.
What would he say if he saw her now? Would he be furious? Heartbroken?
Would he see her as weak?
Robin wiped at her face with trembling hands, trying to hold herself together for just a little longer. She couldn’t bring herself to call him. Not yet. Not until she could explain it without sounding like she was drowning.
But the truth was: she was. And the weight of pretending otherwise was becoming unbearable.
So she sat there, Boothill’s jacket tight around her frame, her cheek pressed to the fabric like it might whisper something kind back. Her body hurt. Her heart hurt more.
She didn’t pray. She didn’t believe in miracles. But tonight, if someone heard her — Boothill, Sunday, anyone — she just wanted them to know:
She was still here. Still waiting. Still holding on.
Even if only barely.
Boothill had fallen into a rhythm he couldn’t break — not that he wanted to.
Every day, he found himself returning to the same street, lingering just a few buildings down from Robin’s apartment. He never stayed too long, never did anything that would draw attention, but he was always close enough to see if the lights were on, if the curtains shifted, if there was any sign that she was still inside — still herself.
He didn’t know exactly what was happening behind those walls, but something in his gut told him it wasn’t right.
Eight days.
He counted them like a prayer, each one more uneasy than the last. Eight days since he’d seen her, touched her hand, danced under the golden awning like fools in love with nowhere to go. Eight days since that door opened and that bastard walked through, and Boothill had disappeared into the night before he could get them both in trouble.
But he’d never really left.
He came back. Every hour he could steal. Every streetlight he could park under without looking suspicious. And he watched, heart in his throat, for anything — any flash of her, a breath of music, a flicker of her silhouette in the window.
This time, on the eighth day, he noticed something different.
He was leaning on the edge of the sidewalk, cigarette long since burned down, when his eyes caught a shimmer of pale blue. There, perched delicately on the narrow ledge outside one of the upper windows, was a dove.
Not just any dove. Its feathers shimmered with hints of lavender and periwinkle — soft, surreal. Boothill blinked, and then stared. He’d seen that bird before.
A flash in a music video. Half a second, barely a frame. Robin and someone else — a guy with the same smile as hers, probably her brother — cupping the strange little creature in their hands, laughing into the camera. A home video, if he remembered right. Barely used in the final cut. But it had stuck with him. That bird wasn’t normal. It meant something.
And now, there it was, sitting quietly on the windowsill above.
Boothill’s heart started to pound, the same way it had in the alley when she ran into his arms. He didn’t believe in signs, not really — but he believed in her. And if she was still drawing that bird to her side, still connected to something real, something true, then maybe all wasn’t lost.
He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving the bird.
It didn’t fly away.
Just turned its head slightly, like it saw him too.
Boothill swallowed hard.
He didn’t know what he was going to do. Not yet. But he knew he couldn’t leave. Not now. Not while she was still in there, and he had any chance of reaching her.
Eight days of waiting. And now, a sign.
He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up at that window — waiting, hoping, ready.
If Robin needed him… he’d be there.
Always.
Boothill leaned against the rusted railing just across from the building, eyes fixed on the bird perched above. The pale-feathered dove hadn't moved — not since he'd spotted it. Its soft plumage caught the low sun, casting a faint iridescent glow that made the moment feel heavier, quieter somehow. Almost holy.
He exhaled slowly, eyes tired but alert, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets.
"You’re looking at her, aren’t you..." he said softly, voice rough from hours of silence and too many unspoken words. “Yeah. Me too.”
The bird tilted its head, unblinking. Calm. Present. As if it knew.
“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, glancing down at the pavement for a second before finding the courage to look back up. “Not just like—pretty. Not stage makeup and perfect-hair beautiful. Not how the world sees her. I mean the real her. The one who laughs with her eyes closed. The one who hums when she walks. The one who danced with me like the world didn’t exist.”
The dove gave no reply, but its feathers fluffed slightly in the breeze, a tiny ripple of movement like a breath drawn in.
Boothill’s throat tightened. He leaned forward a little, voice lowering like he was sharing a secret.
“I just hope she’s okay,” he said. “It looked bad... that night. I saw it in her eyes. After he came out that door. She was different.”
The dove tilted its head the other way now, almost curious.
“I haven’t seen her in days, y’know?” Boothill continued, a weak laugh catching in his chest. “I keep showing up like an idiot. Just hoping. Every time the light comes on, I think—maybe this time she’ll look out. Maybe she’ll see me.”
His jaw clenched. He looked away for a moment, trying to collect himself. Then, more quietly:
“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Another silence stretched, heavier than the last. The street buzzed far off — traffic, chatter, life. But here, on this corner, it all felt paused. He looked back up at the dove, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re just a bird,” he said. “You don’t know any of this. But you’re still sittin’ there. Still watching her window. So maybe... maybe you do.”
He shook his head, laughing under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck like the absurdity of it all was finally catching up to him.
“I’m losing it, talkin’ to birds.”
Still, the dove didn’t fly away. It stayed. Steady. Quiet. Present.
Boothill chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he turned away from the building. The tension in his shoulders had loosened slightly, the moment with the dove grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.
“Well, maybe I’m not completely losing it,” he muttered to himself, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “Guess we'll see, huh?”
The dove stayed perched for a moment longer, and then, with a soft flutter of wings, it took flight. Boothill stopped mid-step, watching as it spiraled up into the air, gliding on the breeze. The pale blue and purple feathers caught the sunlight for just a moment before the bird vanished into the distance.
He exhaled, turning away again. A faint smile still on his lips, though a sliver of confusion lingered.
“Off to do your job then, huh?” he said, his voice barely audible as he looked at the empty space where the bird had just been. He didn’t expect an answer. Not really.
But as the dove soared away, Boothill felt an odd kind of peace settle over him, as if the bird’s flight was the beginning of something else — something he couldn’t quite grasp yet.
He kept walking. His boots clicking softly on the sidewalk, the world humming around him. But his mind was still with Robin, still tethered to the girl who had danced with him under the awning, still haunted by the thought of her locked away, silenced, in that apartment.
Meanwhile, the Charmony dove angled sharply, wings beating in rhythmic time with the wind. It was as though it had a purpose — as though it knew where it needed to go.
The bird didn’t fly straight back to Boothill, however. Instead, it headed in the opposite direction, gliding across rooftops and treetops. The same pattern it had followed when it first left Sunday’s arms, carrying with it the hopes of a reunion that still hadn’t come.
It wasn’t going to Boothill anymore.
It was headed back to Sunday.
The dove’s flight took it over the quiet streets, passing by alleyways and familiar haunts. Soon enough, it landed gently outside a large, carefully kept building — a penthouse that overlooked the city skyline. The bird perched on the balcony railing, looking in through the glass, where a figure paced behind the windows.
Sunday had finally returned.
The dove sat still for a long moment, staring inside. Waiting.
Then, in a flutter of wings, it disappeared once again into the city — but not far. Not yet.
Five days had passed since she last left the apartment, five days since she’d held Boothill’s jacket close to her chest, inhaling its scent like it was the last thing keeping her tethered to something real. Now, the fabric was faint, devoid of the warmth she had clung to in her weakest moments. The scent had dissipated, leaving behind only the bitter chill of her isolation.
Robin sat on the edge of her bed, her hands pressed into her eyes, trying to squeeze out the exhaustion that had settled deep within her. But no matter how hard she rubbed, the dark circles remained — bags under her eyes, as if they were the only things left that still held weight. She barely recognized herself anymore. A faded version of the girl who had once stood tall, full of fire and passion.
Her reflection in the mirror across from her seemed almost alien. Her skin had lost its glow. Her cheeks, once full of life, now sagged, hollowed by the endless cycle of rehearsals, interviews, and the constant demands of a life that felt like it was being lived for someone else. Fisher’s orders, his anger, his control — all of it had eroded her sense of self, piece by piece.
She rubbed her thumb across the smooth surface of the jacket, a weak attempt to resurrect the memory of Boothill’s warmth. She let out a shuddering sigh, staring at the empty room around her, the silence louder than anything. Fisher was out again, off to whatever business mattered more than her. She could feel the weight of his absence even when he wasn’t physically present. He was a shadow over her, watching, controlling, his hand always hovering near the strings he pulled to make her dance.
And now, she felt like nothing more than a puppet.
Her phone was silent. She hadn't reached out. She hadn’t allowed herself to. The fear of being caught, of being watched, of seeing nothing from the one person who had been her escape—it was too much.
Her chest tightened, and her head swam with the thought of him — Boothill. It felt like a distant memory now, like something that belonged to another time, another version of herself that she could no longer grasp. The day they danced under the awning, the way he had held her close, the way he made her feel like she was seen. Like she wasn’t just a commodity.
But all of that had slipped away in the haze of her duties and Fisher’s rage.
She picked up her phone again, staring at the screen. There were no messages. No calls. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment. She should’ve tried to reach out. She should’ve tried to be brave, to let him know what was really happening, but she couldn’t. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to face the truth, even if she already knew it.
Boothill had probably moved on. He had a life. He wasn’t wrapped up in the chaos that surrounded her.
But she was still trapped in this cage.
Her hands dropped back to her sides, the weight of it all pressing down on her. The emptiness had settled deep in her chest now, a hollow that wouldn’t be filled with music or fame or the hollow applause of a crowd. She wanted out. She wanted to run.
But where would she go?
She wasn’t even sure who she was anymore.
The scent of Boothill’s jacket was gone. The last remnants of his warmth, too. And the more she tried to hold onto it, the more she felt it slip through her fingers.
Her heart went with it.
She leaned back against the bed, staring at the ceiling, her breath shallow.
And she waited.
Boothill stood across the street from Robin’s apartment, his usual spot, watching the building through the haze of streetlights and the soft mist of early evening. It had become routine—almost automatic now. His eyes always drawn to her window, even though he knew she was probably holed up inside, away from the world. It had been days since he'd last seen her, and the aching silence between them grew heavier with each passing hour. The dove had stopped coming.
He shifted on his feet, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, and exhaled a tired breath. The night was colder than usual, a reminder that time was slipping away, and with it, the last of his resolve. He stared at her window, his mind full of thoughts he couldn’t express, questions he couldn’t ask.
But then, a faint chirp broke through the stillness behind him.
Boothill's eyes flicked back instinctively, narrowing in confusion. There, perched on the shoulder of a man walking toward him, was the dove. The same pale blue and purple feathers. The same bird that had been watching her window every time he came by.
The man was tall, with dirty pale blue hair that seemed to catch the light in an almost ethereal way. His amber eyes locked onto Boothill’s from the moment their gazes met, piercing and unyielding.
Boothill froze for a moment, a chill running through him. He knew that look. That stare. The way the stranger observed him, like he was an open book.
The man raised an eyebrow, as if amused by the sudden tension that thickened the air.
“Quite the habit you’ve got there, staring up at the window,” the man said, his voice cool and steady. “Does she know about it?”
Boothill’s throat tightened. He wasn’t sure what to say. There was something unnerving about this man, a feeling that washed over him like an omen.
“You... you’re Sunday, aren’t you?” Boothill finally asked, realizing who this man was. Robin’s brother. The one she had mentioned a few times, but never in much detail. The man who had helped her get to where she was now.
Sunday’s lips curled into a slight smile, though there was no warmth in it. His eyes didn’t leave Boothill’s.
“Smart guess. But not quite the question I’m interested in.” He shifted his stance, the dove on his shoulder fluttering its wings as it shifted its weight. “Tell me, Boothill. What’s your relationship with Robin?”
The directness of the question hit Boothill like a punch to the gut. He hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal, but there was something in Sunday’s eyes, a sharpness that made him feel like he couldn’t lie.
“I—I’m just someone who met her, you know?” Boothill said, his voice tight. “Someone who... who cares. Who saw her for who she really is. Not what the world wants her to be.”
Sunday tilted his head, eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion. “Funny how you care so much,” he said softly, “but don’t know the half of it. Don’t know the weight she carries. The people she’s surrounded by.”
Before Boothill could respond, Sunday lifted a hand. “But that’s not really what I’m here for.”
He turned slightly, his gaze still steady on Boothill, as though the words were a warning, a shift in the conversation that Boothill couldn’t quite grasp.
A quiet whistle passed between Sunday’s lips, and Boothill followed his gaze. The dove took flight again, this time darting away swiftly. Boothill blinked, his chest tightening as he realized what was happening.
Sunday’s amber eyes flicked toward the entrance of the building, where the shadows of the lobby loomed. “You’re not the only one watching, Boothill. Robin has people. People who look after her, people who might know what’s going on.”
Boothill’s stomach dropped. He felt like he was being swept into something far deeper than he had anticipated. “Who?”
Before he could ask another question, Sunday’s smirk deepened, and with a slight nod, he turned toward the entrance of the complex.
“If you want Robin back,” Sunday said coolly, “follow me. She's who I'm here for.”
The bird was gone. Sunday was already walking toward the lobby, the dove a mere speck in the distance.
Boothill hesitated for a moment, his mind racing, before making the decision to follow. He couldn’t stand there, staring anymore. He needed to understand. He needed to find Robin, find out what was happening to her—what she was really facing. And as he stepped toward the entrance of the building, a knot of unease settled in his chest. Something bigger was happening, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.
Of course. Here's the continuation, shifting back to Robin’s perspective, capturing her fragile state and the intensifying abuse:
Inside the apartment, the air was thick and stale, like it hadn’t been touched by fresh breath or light in days. Robin sat hunched in the corner of the bedroom, her back pressed to the side of the bedframe. Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them, as if she could make herself smaller—disappear entirely.
The room was in chaos. Books lay sprawled across the floor where they’d been tossed in frustration, pages creased and torn. Clothes were everywhere—on the chair, on the bed, in little heaps by the door—as though she’d tried to find an outfit and gave up halfway through the act. The curtains were drawn tight, suffocating the daylight, and the only illumination came from the pale bedside lamp that flickered every now and then, casting long, weak shadows across the room.
Robin herself looked as if she had been drained of everything bright and beautiful. Her skin had grown pale, thin, ashen. Her hair, unwashed and loose, framed her face in tangled waves. Dark bags bloomed beneath her eyes, and her lips were cracked from days of crying and silence. A shell. A husk. Even the echoes of song had abandoned her.
In the next room, Fisher’s voice rose—shouting again.
“Do you know how that made me look?” he barked, voice bouncing off the sterile kitchen tiles. “You sat there like some drugged-up mannequin. I was the one doing all the talking, all the saving, while you just stared at the floor like some lost little girl. You embarrassed me, Robin. Do you want people thinking you’re mentally unstable?”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.
His footsteps grew louder. She clutched a loose shirt from the floor and held it to her chest, balling it in her fists like a lifeline. Her tears rolled silently, slicking her cheeks and darkening the fabric she clung to. She tried to breathe quietly, shallowly, not to make a sound—anything not to provoke him further.
The door slammed open.
Fisher stood in the doorway, red in the face, eyes full of something poisonous. He looked at her like she was nothing. Like a stain.
“Of course. Crying again.” He scoffed, stepping in. “You sit here like a wounded puppy while I do all the work. Do you think your career sustains itself on your talent?”
She flinched as he moved closer.
She whispered something—inaudible, more breath than voice.
“What was that?” he snapped.
“I said… I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking like glass. She looked up for just a second, eyes swimming, face flushed and wet. She hated herself for saying it. For meaning it, even for a second.
His hand twitched.
He grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise, dragging her up slightly before shoving her back down against the side of the bed. “You’re sorry?” he growled, looming over her. “You’re lucky I haven’t fired your whole damn team for your little tantrum on live radio. Grow up, Robin. You’re not a little girl anymore.”
She gasped as she hit the side of the bedframe, the sharp metal edge pressing into her spine. Her fingers gripped the shirt tighter, clutching it like a shield.
He stood there for a moment longer, breathing hard, eyes darting, and then turned abruptly, storming out of the room with a final slam of the door.
Robin remained frozen.
The silence returned, but it wasn’t peace—it was a suffocating absence. A void filled only by the sound of her own shaky breathing and the frantic thrum of her pulse.
She crumpled into herself, sobs now shaking her thin frame. Her lips moved but no sound came out. She was afraid to scream. Afraid to make a noise.
The sound of rattling keys was like thunder in the silence.
Robin jerked upright, her breath catching in her throat. She looked toward the bedroom door, eyes wide, heart in her throat. Had she imagined it? Another trick of her sleep-deprived mind?
No.
The front door creaked open.
Then: footsteps. Heavy ones. More than one pair.
Acheron entered first, tall and solid like a wall of fury in motion. Her jaw was set, eyes scanning the wreckage of the apartment with a venomous scowl. One hand hovered near the weapon clipped beneath her coat.
Boothill followed closely, tense, eyes wide as they darted over the room—the knocked-over lamp, the broken photo frame near the wall, the open bottle of wine spilled across a white rug. His breath hitched as he stepped further inside, the realization slowly sinking in.
He hadn’t known. Not truly. Not the extent.
Behind them, Sunday stepped through the door with grim calm. His pale-blue hair gleamed under the dim light, and the dove on his shoulder fluttered its wings once before perching silently again. His face was unreadable, a cold mask that barely twitched as he surveyed the devastation.
Boothill’s hand clenched around the grip of the weapon tucked at his side, though he hadn’t drawn it. Not yet.
“Robin?” he called, voice strained.
There was no answer, only a muffled sob behind the cracked bedroom door.
Fisher emerged from the hallway just then, mid-sentence, his voice still laced with lingering venom. “You better get it together before—”
He stopped.
His eyes landed on Boothill first, then flicked to Acheron’s tense stance, and finally to Sunday—who stepped forward like death with a halo.
Boothill’s expression shifted, something raw and furious flashing across his features as he took one look at the bruise blooming across Robin’s cheek through the narrow gap in the bedroom door.
“You bastard,” Boothill spat, and in an instant, he lunged.
Fisher barely had time to react before Boothill was in his face, grabbing the collar of his pristine shirt and slamming him against the nearest wall. Picture frames clattered to the floor.
“You laid hands on her?” Boothill roared, eyes burning. “You hurt her?”
Fisher struggled under the grip, glaring, but not so confident now.
“I swear to God, if you ever breathe near her again—”
“Boothill,” Sunday said sharply. Not shouting—just a word, low, full of warning. “Not yet.”
Boothill didn’t loosen his grip. “You should’ve stopped me already.”
Acheron stepped past them, moving toward the bedroom. She knocked gently once.
“Robin?” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, but steady. “It’s Acheron. I’m coming in, alright?”
There was no reply, but the door wasn’t locked. She pushed it open slowly.
Robin sat curled near the bed, still gripping the shirt in her hands. Her face was pale, eyes bloodshot, her bottom lip trembling.
When she looked up and saw them—Acheron, Boothill’s shape in the doorway, Sunday just behind—a choked gasp left her. Relief and disbelief flooded her face, but she couldn’t speak. She just let the tears fall again, silently.
Acheron stepped in, crouching beside her like a knight kneeling before royalty.
Boothill released Fisher at last, letting him slump against the wall like a discarded piece of furniture. He turned, stepping toward the bedroom.
Robin’s lips trembled as she reached out with shaking hands, almost afraid he was a ghost.
“I’m here, dove,” Boothill murmured, kneeling beside her. “I’m here now.”
And for the first time in weeks, Robin didn’t feel alone.
Boothill knelt in front of Robin with the gentleness of someone holding something fragile—something broken but beloved. He didn’t say much. He just opened his arms, and she collapsed into them like she was collapsing into herself.
His arms wrapped around her middle, pulling her in as close as he could without hurting her. He could feel the tremors running through her, the shallow hitch of each breath, and it broke something inside him.
“I’ve got you, dove,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. But she clung to him, face buried in his shoulder, her fingers tangled tightly into the lapel of his coat. For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to be held—not like a possession or a porcelain doll, but like a person, like someone who mattered.
Acheron moved silently around the room behind them, her face unreadable but her movements swift and practiced. She grabbed a tote bag from the closet and began collecting Robin’s things—the jacket Boothill had once given her, a tattered lyric notebook, a silver ring from her dresser, her medication, a few scattered clothes.
She didn’t ask what to take. She just knew.
Meanwhile, out in the living room, the air grew colder.
Sunday stood before Fisher now, not yelling, not moving quickly—just walking forward, slow and deliberate, until Fisher was backed into the corner beside the window. The dove on his shoulder remained still, its head tilted as if it too were watching intently.
Fisher was trying to puff up again, find some authority in his posture, but Sunday’s presence stripped him of it like peeling paint. The look in Sunday’s amber eyes wasn’t fire—it was ice. Controlled. Contained. Lethal.
“You thought I wouldn’t find out,” Sunday said, voice low and steady. “You thought I wouldn’t come.”
Fisher scoffed, trying for bravado. “This isn’t your business—”
“Everything involving my sister is my business.”
His voice didn’t rise, but it landed like a blow. Fisher opened his mouth again, but Sunday stepped forward, and his back hit the wall with an audible thud.
“I know everything now. Every bruised cheek. Every broken schedule. Every scream she never let out loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”
Fisher swallowed. “I didn’t—”
“Shut up.” Sunday’s tone didn’t waver. “You kept her isolated. Overworked. Exhausted. You stole the joy she bled into her music. You used her voice and crushed her spirit.”
There was a long, tense pause as Sunday tilted his head, the dove fluttering once on his shoulder.
“And you put your hands on her.”
Fisher took a nervous step sideways, only to find Acheron blocking the hallway now, her arms crossed and her glare poisonous. Her weapon was still tucked at her side, but the message was clear: she wouldn’t need to draw it unless she wanted to.
Sunday leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into something even colder.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. Robin’s done with you. Her contracts? I’ll handle them. Any footage, photos, or material you think you can use against her—I’ll burn your entire company to the ground before a single frame leaks.”
“You can’t—”
“I will.”
Fisher shrunk back, sweat beading at his brow.
Sunday turned slightly, glancing toward the bedroom where Boothill still held Robin close, her eyes slowly blinking, as if trying to wake from a bad dream.
Then, back to Fisher.
“Next time you see me, I won’t be talking.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, walking away with the certainty of someone who had just delivered a final verdict.
Boothill gently shifted his arms, tucking Robin closer as he stood. She was nearly weightless in his embrace, her exhaustion clinging to her like fog. She didn’t resist—couldn’t. Her head rested against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed the moment he whispered to her.
“You’re alright now, dove,” he murmured, soft as falling rain. “You’re safe.”
By the time the words left his lips, she was already asleep.
Boothill paused only to grab his coat, draping it around her frail shoulders. It nearly swallowed her whole, but that was the point. He tugged the hood up gently, carefully hiding the bruises on her face, the hollow look in her eyes, the way she’d crumbled into him like a wilted petal.
No one needed to see her like this—not the city, not the cameras, not the world that had watched her become a star.
Only he could carry this version of her—the raw, broken one. And he would.
Acheron trailed behind them with the bag of Robin’s belongings slung over one shoulder, alert, watchful, protective. Sunday stood at the doorway, letting them pass first. His eyes didn’t leave his sister’s hidden form, but he said nothing. Not yet. His time would come.
Boothill stepped out into the hallway, holding Robin as though she were sacred. His hands never trembled. He kissed her forehead once—lightly, reverently, the way someone would kiss a prayer they didn’t expect to be answered.
And then he walked, quiet and swift through the building, through the lobby, out into the city.
The world outside was unaware. Just another night in the city. Neon lights cast fractured colors onto the wet sidewalks. A few pedestrians passed by, lost in their own lives, oblivious to the quiet tragedy slipping past them in the shadows.
No cameras. No fans. Just a girl and the man who refused to let her fall alone again.
As Boothill held her close beneath his jacket and moved through the cool night, Robin’s breathing deepened. Steady. Safe. Her fingers curled weakly into the fabric at his chest, her entire body relaxing into the rhythm of his heartbeat.
She wouldn’t remember the kiss.
She wouldn’t remember the quiet humming he started under his breath, the tune one of her own, warped a little by his voice.
But her body would remember the softness, the safety, the sensation of being carried out of hell by hands that only ever wanted to hold her—never hurt her.
And that was enough, for now.
The car was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the rain against the roof and the occasional passing car. Robin sat curled up in the corner of the back seat, Boothill’s jacket still wrapped around her like a makeshift shield. Her face was pale, streaked with dried tears, the hood low over her brow as if it could hide her from the world.
Sunday sat beside her. His normally sharp expression was soft now, worn with guilt.
He watched her for a moment, the way her hands clenched the fabric like it might vanish, how her breaths came slow and uneven, as if every inhale was a task.
“I should’ve been there,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Robin didn’t move. But her lip trembled.
“I knew something was wrong,” he continued. “I just didn’t know how bad. You’ve always been good at hiding things, Rob.”
Still, she said nothing. But a tear slipped down her cheek.
“I wanted to give you space,” Sunday said. “Wanted you to shine on your own. You were always meant to be a star—I didn’t want to get in your way. I thought Fisher was just… pushy. Controlling, maybe. But not like this.”
Robin finally looked at him, just slightly. Her eyes were red and puffy, but locked on his now. “I was scared you’d hate me,” she murmured, voice cracked. “For letting it get this bad. For not walking away sooner.”
Sunday leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“I could never hate you. Not for surviving,” he said. “And not for trusting the wrong person. That’s not on you. That’s on him.”
Robin’s lips parted, a small sob catching in her throat. “But I let him ruin everything. I let him—” she broke off, curling into herself again. “I just wanted to make you proud.”
Sunday reached over, placing a steady hand on her back.
“You did. You always have. And none of this—none of what he did—undoes any of it.”
His voice cracked slightly at the end, and he turned his face away, blinking back tears of his own.
“You’re the reason I work like I do,” he admitted. “Why I fought so hard to make sure people saw you. Not the brand. Not the image. You.”
Robin let out a breath, shaky and deep.
“I thought if I told you,” she said, “you’d be disappointed. Like I failed. Like I broke the dream.”
Sunday shook his head. “The dream was never the point. You were. You still are.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. Not heavy, but fragile. The kind of silence that holds something sacred in its center.
Then Robin whispered, “I want to come home.”
Sunday reached over, gently brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Then let’s go.”
And for the first time in days, Robin leaned her head on someone’s shoulder and let herself rest.