By the time I make it into the tunnel, the noise behind me is a full-on storm. Reporters crowd the corridor like a tide, shoving microphones toward anyone wearing Surge colors. The smell of sweat and ice mixes with the metallic buzz of adrenaline.
My phone won’t stop vibrating in my hand. Notifications blur across the screen—tweets, headlines, live updates.LOCKE MELTDOWN TRENDING #1 WORLDWIDE.Sponsors Suspend Endorsements Pending Review.Surge Captain Leo Voss Declines Comment.
I glance up just in time to see him step through the media scrum. His jersey is half untucked, hair damp with sweat, but he looks calm. Collected. The storm swirls around him, and he just… walks through it.
“Leo! Leo, do you have a comment on Locke’s behavior tonight?”
“Is this vindication for you after everything?”
“Anya Lopez claims the exposé was just the beginning—care to elaborate?”
He pauses, just for a second. The cameras flash. Then his voice cuts through the noise, even and steady. “We let the game speak.”
That’s it. No speech, no victory monologue. Just six words that slice through the chaos cleaner than any headline could.
The reporters murmur, disappointed they didn’t get blood, but they keep snapping photos. Leo hands off his helmet to an equipment manager and keeps walking, straight toward me.
The second his eyes find mine, something eases. The adrenaline doesn’t vanish, but it changes shape—less frantic, more grounded. I step forward, and he doesn’t say anything when I reach for his arm. His hand finds mine, fingers still cold from the ice, and squeezes once.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s almost smiling. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”
Behind us, the reporters keep shouting his name, trying to pull him back into the storm. But he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t need to. For the first time, he doesn’t have to fight for the truth—he justisit.
And walking beside him down that tunnel, I realize maybe this is what redemption really looks like. Not loud. Not cinematic. Just quiet, earned peace.
By the time we make it out of the arena, the night feels like it’s humming. Fans swarm the exits, chanting Leo’s name, their cheers echoing off the concrete. The city lights blur in the reflection of the glass doors as we step outside, the cold air cutting through the leftover adrenaline.
Leo pulls his cap low, head ducked as we weave through the crowd. Even in the noise, people make space for him—patting his shoulder, shoutingwelcome back,their voices full of pride instead of pity. It’s strange and beautiful all at once.
We reach the car. The moment the doors shut, silence swallows us whole. It’s a soft kind of quiet—exhausted, heavy with everything unspoken. I can still hear the faint echo of the crowd outside, like a heartbeat fading into distance.
Leo’s hands rest on the steering wheel for a second before he exhales, long and slow. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear them cheer like that again,” he says quietly.
“You earned it,” I say, turning toward him. “Not by proving them wrong. By proving yourself right.”
His mouth curves, small but real. He reaches for my hand across the console, fingers threading through mine. The warmth of his skin is steady, grounding. His thumb traces slow circles against my palm, wordless but full of meaning.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, my pulse slows. The adrenaline fades. The world stops spinning.
We drive through the city, lights streaking past the windshield—gold, red, silver—like the world’s still catching up to what just happened. Leo doesn’t turn on the radio, and I don’t ask. The silence between us isn’t awkward; it’s safe.
I glance at him, the glow from the streetlights painting his profile in soft amber. He looks at peace. Not untouchable, not invincible—just… home.
My chest aches in the best way. Because for the first time, it feels like we’re both breathing in sync with the same rhythm.
The drive home feels shorter than it should. Maybe because neither of us speaks, maybe because for once, there’s nothing left to say. The noise, the cameras, the chaos—it all feels miles away now. Just the hum of the tires, the faint rhythm of Leo’s thumb still tracing lazy patterns on the back of my hand.
When we pull up outside our building, the city’s quieted into that rare late-night calm. The streetlights buzz faintly, catching the soft sheen of leftover snow on the sidewalks. We walk into the building and he moves ahead of me.
He’s staring past me, toward the front door of my building. “Sage,” he murmurs.
I follow his gaze.
An envelope leans against the doorframe—white, crisp, impersonal. My chest tightens, an ache blooming in the quiet as I wonder if this is how endings look before you’re ready to face them. My stomach dips before I even move.
He grabs it, frowning as he flips it over, then glances at me before reading aloud. “Penthouse repairs complete—move-in ready.”
