The morning after the storm, sunlight streamed into the eastern wing of the Jefferson estate. Chess Golding sat at the long mahogany table, reading an encrypted report on his sleek tablet.
Still composed.
Still unreadable.
Elsa walked in wearing black jeans, a fitted white blouse, and a leather jacket thrown over her shoulder. Her hair was tied into a loose braid—casual but sharp.
"Get up. You're coming with me," she said, no hello, no smile.
Chess didn't look up. "You're giving orders now?"
"Only when they're interesting."
He arched an eyebrow. "And where are we going?"
"To do something you clearly haven't done in a decade."
"Which is?"
She leaned in slightly.
"Have fun."
🌆 Out in Velmora
Velmora was alive—noisy, vibrant, and a beautiful chaos.
They moved through a downtown market where chessboards sat next to street tacos, and street performers spun fire beside AI-run noodle carts.
Elsa walked ahead, ignoring the stares they drew as a pair.
"This is what real people do," she teased, sipping from a fresh coconut. "Not hide in bunkers with power moves and private satellites."
Chess looked around, clearly out of place but not bothered.
"Do you enjoy being reckless?"
"It's only reckless if you can't afford it."
"You stole that quote."
"And you need to loosen up."
She pulled him into a street darts booth run by a grinning old lady named Maku. The prize? A plush raccoon with sunglasses.
Elsa took the first throw—bullseye.
"Show me what that secret sect of yours taught you," she said, cocky.
Chess took the dart, aimed lazily—and intentionally missed.
"You're faking it."
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted you to win."
She rolled her eyes.
"Wow. That was almost charming."
"Careful," he said. "Flattery makes me suspicious."
🥃 Bar Games & Secrets
As evening rolled in, they ended up at a rooftop bar called The Hollow Vine—wooden floors, plants everywhere, neon poetry on the walls.
They slid into a shadowed booth. Elsa ordered whiskey. Chess asked for water.
"Really?" she mocked.
"I've already had enough fire for one life."
"You always this cryptic?"
"Only when I'm trying not to reveal anything."
She looked at him. Quietly. Searching.
"You've seen things. Done things. It's written all over you."
"So have you," he said gently.
A silence stretched.
This time… not tense.
Just raw.
Real.
🎯 Darts, Round Two
After two whiskeys, Elsa dragged him back to the rooftop dart board.
"No cheating this time," she challenged. "Winner gets answers."
"And loser?"
"Buys dessert."
She went first—hit the outer ring.
Chess stepped up.
Thwack. Bullseye.
"Damn," she muttered.
"You owe me answers."
"Fine. Ask."
He turned, face calm… but his eyes—piercing.
"Why do you keep fighting Silas alone?"
Elsa blinked. She hadn't expected him to go there.
She looked away, fingers tightening around her glass.
"Because no one else will. Not really. Not even the family that bears my name."
He studied her. Quiet. Then:
"You're wrong."
"About what?"
"About being alone."
She turned to him.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time—it wasn't a power game. It wasn't a tactic.
It was… personal.
"Maybe you should stop disappearing then," she whispered.
He smiled. Barely. But it was a smile.
"Maybe I will."