Metal tools, coiled wires, open cases—all the equipment I use to fix other people’s security problems. Funny how none of it means a damn thing right now. Not when the one person I want to help slammed the door in my face because she’s drowning in something I don’t understand.
I drag a hand over my jaw, inhale once, twice, steadying. Logic first. Always logic. Emotion later—when no one is around to see.
Then everything starts replaying.
Her jumpiness.
The way she flinches when someone walks in too quietly.
How she sleeps with noise, like silence is the real danger.
The oversized hoodies in summer.
The disguises. Caps pulled low, sunglasses at dusk, sleeves to her wrists, even when the heat is brutal.
The sudden arrival in Cedar Lake with nothing but a rental and a single suitcase.
The sealed-up house this morning, curtains drawn, locks double-checked like ritual.
And the hair.
Bloody hell—the hair.
Bright pink when she stumbled into town, like she forgot to hide it in her panic.
Dyed dark the very next day.
Why hide something unless it’s recognizable?
Unless it belongs to someone the world already knows?
My pulse kicks up. A slow, heavy beat. An instinct that feels too damn familiar.
I type her name into the search bar.
Lucky Vale. I doubt it’s even her real name.
The results load—
And my stomach drops like I’ve been shoved off a cliff.
Because the internet knows a different Lucky.
Lucky Pink — lead guitarist of Rebel June.
World tours. Arena lights. Pink hair turned into an icon. Tabloids are tearing into her with their rotten teeth.
And the tattoos I’ve already seen, already traced with my own hands—bare skin, warm, trusting—
Jesus.
I touched history and didn’t even know it.
I scroll.
Pictures. Headlines. Footage.
The infamous meltdown. The “vanished celebrity.” The media frenzy.
