At midnight, Maya walked out of the club. The air outside was humid and sweet. She took one last look at the phone screen, swiped Marcus’s contact, and hit . No grand speech. No final showdown. Just a quiet, rhythmic exit.

She thought of her apartment—the one she was moving out of tomorrow. She thought of the new keys in her pocket, cold and heavy and full of potential. The lyrics on the screen behind the DJ booth flashed in hot pink and electric blue, screaming the independence she had finally reclaimed.

Maya didn’t reply. She didn't need to talk; she had spent three years talking, explaining, and hoping, only to be met with the same hollow promises. As the DJ dropped the opening bars of Shenseea’s the room seemed to shrink until it was just her and the music. “Me no have time fi the drama and the stress...”

In her hand, her phone buzzed—another text from Marcus. “Where are you? Let’s talk.”