The downpour had started three days ago and hadn’t stopped since. Raindrops fell and hissed against the tiled rooftop in an endless whisper, drowning the world below in quiet grief.
Ivan sat beneath the narrow concrete overhang beside the stairwell, shoulders damp, collar clinging to his skin.
City lights shimmered in puddles at his feet, blurred by the drizzle and the exhaustion in his eyes.
He didn’t look up when the rooftop door creaked open.
Didn’t flinch at the echo of soaked shoes slapping against wet tile.
He already knew.
She was coming.
He hadn’t answered any of her texts or calls since that evening — since Juliana pulled that stunt with his jacket.
Irina stumbled forward like a ghost dragging herself through the storm.
Her coat hung off one shoulder, hair plastered to her face. Her fingers trembled, clutching uselessly at her sleeves like they could shield her from the rain.
When she reached him, she didn’t speak right away.
She only stood there, breathing hard — wet, shaking, and splintering like glass under a flame.
Then—
“Why… why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice fractured on the first syllable. She sounded like something broken trying to remember how to sound whole.
Ivan slowly turned his head.
“Tell you what?” he asked, quiet and unassuming, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour rehearsing this exact moment in his head.
Irina’s face twisted — not in anger. But in devastation.
“That you were leaving me too,” she said, and the words hit like a collapsing dam. “Viktor’s already gone, and now you—”
She choked. “You haven’t even been talking to me anymore!”
He stood without a word.
Took off his jacket — wet, but warmer than the wind — and draped it over her shoulders. His hands lingered, brushing the curve of her arms, holding her gently.
“I never wanted to leave you, Irina,” he murmured slowly. “But I can’t keep chasing you forever. I like you. I’ve liked you since we were kids. You know that. But Viktor’s always been the center of your world. I can’t keep competing with him for your heart. I’m… I’m just tired.”
And that was all it took.
All it took to end the game.
Her hands shot forward, clutching his shirt like she’d drown without it.
She buried her face into his chest, and her sobs sounded like someone confessing their sins to God.
“I need you,” her whisper came out desperate and strangled and hoarse. “I— I don’t care about Viktor anymore. I don’t care about anything — just… stay. Please don’t leave me.”
Ivan didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
He only held her tighter.
And over her shoulder, his eyes stayed wide and distant — victorious, maybe. But hollow. And just a little afraid of himself.
•••
Two days later, the clang of metal echoed through one of the training halls. Viktor moved through his sparring match like he was born to fight — quick, effortless, unrelenting.
Drawing out his Origin Card, he shot two beams of searing light from his eyes. His opponent hit the dirt, too slow to block the final strike.
Viktor stepped back, panting, chest rising with the high of the win.
But when he looked around…
She wasn’t there.
His breath caught.
She always watched him train. Always clapped. Always waved that ridiculous water bottle covered in stickers.
But today, there was no one waiting for him on the sidelines.
No Irina. No smile. No familiar spark of admiration in her gaze.
Later, he found her in the corridor between classes, laughing radiantly and standing far too close to Ivan.
Ivan’s hand brushed hers in a way that seemed casual and a little intimate.
She didn’t pull away.
Viktor froze mid-step.
When did they… get so close?
“Irina!” he called.
She turned. Blinked. Then smiled.
But the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
It was polite. It was careful.
It wasn’t the smile he remembered.
“Hey,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve got a rank match tomorrow. You coming to watch, right?”
Irina hesitated — and that hesitation said more than any answer could.
“I… promised Ivan I’d help him study,” she said. “Maybe next time?”
Viktor paused, caught off guard. Then nodded like it didn’t matter.
Like something inside him hadn’t just split clean through.
He watched them walk away.
And for the first time in his life… he realized he had lost something he didn’t even know he had.
•••
The rain had stopped four days ago, but the cold hadn’t gone. It clung to the skin — damp and quiet — like the aftertaste of something sweet gone sour.
Ivan sat alone on the rooftop garden, the same one where Irina had confessed to him with trembling hands and a racing heart.
Now, he just sat there — arms limp over his knees, eyes distant and hollow.
Irina had kissed him.
She had chosen him over Viktor.
He had won. Finally.
…So why did this victory feel like a lie?
The door creaked open behind him.
Juliana stepped onto the rooftop with soft, unhurried steps. She didn’t ask if she could sit beside him — she just did.
No words were spoken at first.
Then she broke the silence with a little smirk, voice smooth as silk and just as cutting.
“So, how does victory taste?” she drawled, already knowing the answer.
Ivan didn’t look at her. His voice was low and tired.
“Bitter.”
That made her smile. Of course it did.
He didn’t flinch when she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his. She tilted her head, like a curious cat examining a broken toy.
“Funny. You were glowing a few days ago. All that scheming, the subtle nudges, the fake vulnerability… It looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
He didn’t deny it.
Because she was right.
The thrill had been real. The chase — the illusion of becoming something Irina needed — had given him purpose. Something electric to cling to.
But now?
Now he felt nothing. Like a magician who’d pulled off the perfect trick, only to realize the audience was blind.
“It was so easy. I wanted her to love me the moment I understood what love was. I’ve been doing everything to make that happen since I was, what, ten? I’ve been chasing her practically all my life. And it took just six weeks to fulfill my greatest wish.” He scoffed, finally turning to face her.
His eyes were empty in a way that no light could fill. “She loves me now. I know she does. I made sure of it. I hit every mark. But… I don’t feel it. Not the way I thought I would.”
Juliana exhaled slowly through her nose, amused.
Her gaze was sharp — like a scalpel. Not meant to wound, just to cut clean. “Of course you don’t.”
She rested her chin on her palm, azure eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “You engineered a response, Ivan. Classical conditioning. Stimulus. Reward. Emotional proximity. Manufactured crisis. You knew which wires to pull — and you pulled them. But now you’re surprised the puppet isn’t magic?”
He flinched.
Not outwardly.
But something deep down winced.
She leaned back, folding her arms behind her head as if watching clouds.
“You can’t feel it anymore,” she said, almost casually, “because you know how it works. That’s the problem with people like us. Once you learn the rules behind the illusion, the magic dies. It’s the cost of clarity.”
He was quiet.
She went on. “What you call love is just your brain concocting a cocktail of emotion drugs. Dopamine. Oxytocin. Attachment theories wrapped in fairy tales.”
He frowned slightly. “But it felt real before. With her. With…”
He didn’t finish.
Juliana smiled faintly. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… knowing. “It felt real because you believed it was. You wanted to be chosen — truly chosen — out of want, not need. But Irina chose you because you made her. The chase gave you purpose. The hunger gave you a thrill. But once you caught her… the thrill died. And so did the hunger. This wasn’t the soulmate love you dreamt of. This was a story you wrote with the ending already planned — and now you’re just reading the last page, wondering why it didn’t surprise you.”
She tapped her temple. “It’s basic psychoanalysis, Ivan. I taught you all this.”
Ivan’s throat felt dry. He swallowed. “So what now?”
“Now?” She gave him a look. “Now you rot in awareness like the rest of us.”
“Rest of us?” He raised an eyebrow.
“People who are too smart for their own good,” she replied.
That made him laugh.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “You wanted her to love you. And she does. But now that you know how easily it can be manufactured — how fragile and programmable feelings are — you can’t believe in it anymore. The magic’s gone.”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Juliana’s voice softened. “Because once you know how the trick works, you stop clapping. It’s not real anymore. It’s technique. Timing. Leverage. It’s like once you realize manipulation is real — and how it works — you start seeing it everywhere. And it stops working on you.”
She paused. Then, “You can’t unknow that, Ivan. But isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t this the happy ending you were aiming for? Here it is. Enjoy it.”
He stared into the night, the garden below blurred by fog.
Somewhere down there, Irina was probably sleeping peacefully.
Probably dreaming of him.
And he was up here.
Feeling nothing.
Just a vacuum where the rush used to be.
“Will I ever feel that way again?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Juliana shrugged. “But I’ll tell you this. You still care for her. You still love her — even if it doesn’t excite you anymore. Your feelings are still real. And in that way, you’re already luckier than me.”
Ivan frowned slightly.
But before he could speak, she stood up and brushed the rainwater from her coat. “Goodnight, little monster.”
He looked up at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s what I am now?”
Juliana paused at the door. “Actually, you were always one. You just finally caught up to yourself.”
She left him with that.
And as the door clicked shut behind her, Ivan sat alone on the rooftop, staring into a world that suddenly felt colder — not because of the rain, or the wind.
But because he understood now.
Love had been a game, just like everything else in life.
And he had learned the rules too well.