Four: When Stars Refuse To Burn

Lillium Roosevelt

I woke up to the sharp, relentless buzz of my alarm clock drilling through the early morning stillness. Groaning, I fumbled blindly across the nightstand, my fingers knocking over a pen and a phone charger before finally landing on the clock’s snooze button. I pressed it harder than necessary, as if sheer force would make the noise stop faster.

A heavy silence returned, but the damage was done—I was awake, barely. My eyelids protested every attempt to open, like curtains stuck to frosted windows. The morning light slipped through the blinds in narrow, blinding stripes, slicing across the room and landing directly on my face. I turned my head with a wince, dodging it like a bullet.

Must’ve been that run last night. My muscles ached in quiet rebellion as I shifted under the covers. I sat up slowly, the blanket falling from my body and pooling around my waist, leaving only my boxers for warmth. A dull chill settled over my skin, making me shiver. I pressed my palms to my temples and rubbed gently—an old habit from mornings like this, when sleep had barely touched me, like it had been a fleeting visitor who'd left without so much as a thank you.

The apartment was still and quiet, save for the occasional creak from the ceiling above. Another day, another dollar, another existential crisis averted by the sheer monotony of routine. I stood, unsteady, blinking against the haze in my mind. My feet dragged across the cold floor as I made my way into the kitchen, each step a protest against the burgeoning day.

The faint aroma of last night’s uneaten dinner still lingered in the air, a ghostly echo of garlic and herbs. It was a smell that should have been comforting, but today, it just felt… stale. I spotted the lunch box Tom had given me—left on the counter where I’d dropped it before crashing into bed. My stomach let out a soft grumble, a quiet reminder that I hadn’t touched it. Sleep had taken priority over food. Over everything, really.

I peeled the lid off, revealing a neatly arranged chicken breast. Tom always packed the delicious dinner, a silent, steadfast form of love. I slid the container into the microwave, setting the timer with a few slow taps. The soft hum of the appliance filled the silence, a mechanical counterpoint to the anxious thrumming in my chest.

While it heated, I reached for the kettle and turned on the stove, beginning the familiar ritual of making coffee. It was a small act of normalcy, a foothold in the shifting sands of my life. The gas flame lit with a soft whoosh, and I stared at the blue flicker for a moment, letting the warmth creep toward me. I leaned on the counter, arms crossed, waiting for the kettle to do its slow magic.

Something about mornings like this felt... suspended. Like the day hadn’t quite started, and the weight of whatever was coming hadn’t yet settled. A brief, fragile peace before the storm. I cherished these moments, these stolen pockets of quiet.

The kettle began to whisper, a low sigh that matched the fog in my head. I stood there, half leaning on the counter, watching the seconds tick by on the microwave. My mind drifted—back to the run last night, the way my legs had carried me farther than I intended, past familiar corners and quiet, empty streets, just to get away. To get away from the creeping dread, the suffocating fear from Dominus Vane. His name, a poison on my tongue, a shadow lurking in the corners of my vision.

The microwave beeped, pulling me back to the present. I opened it slowly, letting the steam roll up and hit my face. It smelled like Tom's cooking, chicken with extra pepper and garlic rice, he made it just as I like. Simple, but good. Homey, even. I placed it on the counter and reached for a fork from the drawer, its metal cool against my fingers.

The kettle whistled, sharper now, and I moved to take it off the flame. I poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds, watching the dark liquid bloom in the mug. That first scent of caffeine hit like a soft slap—comforting, grounding. God, I needed that grounding this morning more than ever. Last night was a fog of fitful sleep and fragmented dreams I couldn't quite grasp, leaving me with the lingering ache of something profoundly lost.

I took everything to the table—lunch box, coffee, a half-opened napkin from yesterday—and sat down. The chair creaked under my weight as I settled into it slowly. It was the same old wooden chair, worn smooth by generations of family meals. It had witnessed laughter, tears, arguments, and reconciliations. It was a silent, sturdy witness to my life.

For a moment, I just stared at the food. The steam curled lazily into the air, carrying the scent of familiar comfort. But beneath that comfort, a low thrum of anxiety pulsed in my chest. It had been there since I woke up, a constant, nagging companion.

I wasn’t really hungry, not yet. But I knew I should eat. My body needed something in it—anything to help pull me fully into this day. I took a bite. The rice was warm, the chicken slightly dry but still flavorful. Tom always cooked like someone who'd learned from passion and that gave his food a certain honesty. It filled the gaps. He filled the gaps. In my stomach, in my life.

Sip by sip, bite by bite, the morning started to make more sense. My thoughts began to clear. I could feel the caffeine tracing its path through my veins, lighting up tired circuits. The anxiety in my chest, though still present, felt a little less overwhelming, a little more manageable.

Then, just as I was halfway through my coffee, the vibration of my phone buzzed on the counter behind me. The sound cut through the fragile peace I’d managed to cultivate.

I turned slightly, frowning. Who would be texting me this early? I stood and reached for it, the screen lit up, glaring in the dim morning light.

1 new message from: Donny

“Lu, call me ASAP. It’s dad. He’s in the hospital. It’s serious.”

The air left my lungs in a rush. The rice and chicken turned to lead in my stomach. The coffee, which had been soothing moments ago, now tasted bitter and acidic.

For a second, I just stared at the message, the world tilting around me in slow motion. The mug in my hand suddenly felt too hot, the food on the table forgotten. A hollow pressure expanded in my chest, and my fingers went numb around the phone. I blinked. Once. Twice. As if the words might change.

But they didn’t.

The words just sat there, stark and simple.

Without a second thought, I sprang to my feet and bolted back into my room. My hands trembled as I pulled on the first pair of jeans I could find and threw on a plain black shirt. I grabbed my jacket from the hook near the door, nearly knocking it over, then snatched my wallet and keys from the dresser. My heart was pounding hard in my chest, a sick rhythm that made my ribs ache. Each thud echoed the fear that was rapidly consuming me.

I made my way out of the apartment, I didn’t even bother locking the door behind me—I just ran. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. I skipped two steps at a time, nearly slipping, but I didn’t care. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Every second I wasted here was another second Dominus gained.

Something inside me twisted, this tight, cold knot that told me this wasn’t just some random emergency. This wasn’t just bad luck. This wasn’t something I could ignore.

This must be Dominus doing.

As I burst through the front doors of the building, the morning air slapped me in the face, cold and biting, but it barely registered. I was already waving frantically at the first taxi I saw. The yellow car skidded slightly as it pulled over to the curb.

I jumped in, slamming the door behind me. "Take me to the nearest hospital," I said breathlessly. My voice cracked, rough and uneven. I could barely get the words out.

The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror. Something in my face must have told him this wasn't the time for questions. He gave a short nod and pulled back into traffic, tires squealing faintly as he sped off.

I clutched my phone tightly, my fingers moving almost on their own as I scrolled through my contacts and hit Donny's name.

It rang twice before he picked up.

"Donny!" I blurted, the tension snapping like a rubber band inside me. "Which hospital are you? I'm on my way now!"

There was silence on the other end. Then... a faint, shaky breath. "Donny?" I asked again, softer this time. My voice trembled. "Are you there?"

"Y-yeah… I'm here." His voice was barely a whisper. It cracked mid-sentence, raw and unsteady, like it had been through tears. "It's just that... Dad's in diffi-"

"Don't," I cut in. I didn't mean to raise my voice, but I couldn't help it. I knew what he was about to say. I wasn't ready to hear it. Not yet.

"Donny, just tell me where you are," I pleaded. "Please."

There was a pause. I could hear him sniffle, then a shaky breath.

"We're at NYC Health + Hospitals, in the East Harlem branch," he finally said, voice low, barely hanging on. "Lu… please, hurry. We need you here."

My throat tightened, a lump forming so fast it almost hurt. "I'm on my way," I whispered. "Just hold on." I ended the call and told the driver the exact location.

I stared out the window, buildings blurring past. My mind was spinning—flashing with memories of Tom’s laugh, his voice, the way he always tried to stay strong even when he was trying to hide the pain in his joints from the arthritis. Tom, my best friend's father, a person close to father to me, the only real father figure I had ever known.

He was the one who taught me to ride a bike, his steady hand on my back until he knew I could balance on my own. He was the one who patched me up after my first heartbreak, offering me ice cream and a shoulder to cry on. He was the one who always believed in me, even when I doubted myself.

Now, I was hurtling toward a hospital, toward the possibility of saying goodbye.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the tears to stop. This couldn't be happening. Not to Tom. He was too good, too kind, too full of life. He had so much more to give.

The moment the taxi came to a halt, I barely waited for the car to stop before flinging the door open and jumping out. I shoved a few bills into the driver’s hand and muttered a hurried thank you before sprinting toward the hospital entrance. The crisp night air did little to cool the fire that was burning inside me, fueled by fear and a relentless, gnawing anxiety.

Sliding doors parted with a mechanical whoosh, revealing a flurry of movement inside the emergency room—nurses, orderlies, people in pain, family members with worry etched deep into their faces. It was a scene of controlled chaos, a symphony of beeping machines and hushed, urgent voices. I scanned the room, heart thudding like a war drum in my chest. My eyes darted from face to face, searching, desperate.

No sign of Tom. No sign of Donny.

Panic tightened my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

I rushed toward the reception desk, but just as I was about to speak, a nurse in light blue scrubs walked by. Without thinking, I stepped in front of her, nearly startling her.

“Excuse me, miss,” I said, voice tense, breathless. “Do you have a patient named Tom? Tom Villareal?”

She blinked, taken aback for a moment, then glanced down at the tablet in her hands. Her brow furrowed as she tapped through something. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Each second that passed felt like an eternity.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “he was brought in earlier—he was in critical condition.”

My stomach dropped. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet, and a cold wave of nausea washed over me. Critical condition. The phrase echoed in my head, a death knell reverberating through my very being.

“Where is he now?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, fighting back the urge to crumble. I needed to be strong. For Tom. For Donny.

“He’s been transferred to a private room in the ICU wing,” she said gently, her tone shifting as if realizing the weight of her words.

Everything around me seemed to blur for a second. The buzz of fluorescent lights, the beeping of machines, the murmur of voices—it all faded into a distant hum, a white noise that threatened to swallow me whole. “Can you take me to him?”

She gave me a sympathetic nod. “Follow me.”

I trailed behind her, my legs feeling heavy, my chest tightening with every step. The crisp rustle of her uniform was the only sound for a long moment, a stark contrast to the deafening silence of my own thoughts. We moved through narrow hallways, past closed doors and IV stands, until we reached a double door with an “ICU” sign above it. The nurse swiped her ID and held the door for me. The air that rushed out was cool and stale, laden with the weight of sickness and despair.

“Room 312,” she said softly, pointing down the hall. “Family’s already inside.”

I nodded silently and made my way down the hall, my footsteps muffled on the polished linoleum floor. The corridor felt too quiet. Cold. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

When I reached Room 312, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open slowly. The sterile scent of antiseptic and something vaguely metallic assaulted my nostrils, a smell I associated only with hospitals, with sickness, with a life hanging precariously in the balance.

Donny was sitting in a chair beside the hospital bed, his head bowed, fingers interlaced as if in prayer. He looked up when he heard me, his eyes red and swollen. Lines of exhaustion etched themselves into his usually jovial face, transforming him into a stranger burdened by grief.

I followed his gaze to the bed—and there was Tom.

Pale. Still. Tubes and wires snaked their way from his body to a collection of machines clustered around the bed. Monitors beeped slowly, rhythmically, each pulse a tiny hammer blow against my hope. His chest rose and fell, assisted by the humming ventilator, but his face was expressionless. Like he wasn’t there.

Like he was somewhere else entirely. A terrifying, silent world I couldn't even begin to imagine.

My knees nearly gave out. I clutched the edge of a chair to steady myself, the cold metal a thin anchor in a suddenly swirling world. “What happened?” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice. It was a dry, raspy sound, a question hanging in the air, already answered by the scene before me.

Donny stood slowly, walking over to me. His movements were heavy, like the weight of the moment was pulling him down, anchoring him to the earth with unbearable sadness. He looked older, defeated.

“He was just throwing out the garbage then he got hit by a car,” he said, voice hoarse. “Just outside the diner. It was a hit-and-run. They said the driver sped off—never stopped.” His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, guttural sound of despair.

I looked back at Tom, lying motionless under the thin white blanket. The bandage on his forehead peeked through his hair, stark white against his ashen skin. A bruise marked his cheekbone, a dark purple bloom spreading across his face. There were more I couldn’t see, hidden beneath the hospital gown, injuries I could only imagine inflicted by cold steel and reckless speed.

“He’s in a coma,” Donny continued, swallowing hard. “The doctor said, the impact caused a severe head injury. Subdural hematoma. Internal bleeding. Swelling. Something like that.” The medical jargon felt meaningless, a string of terrifying words that failed to capture the utter devastation laid out before me.

My breath caught. I reached for the side of the bed and slowly lowered myself into the chair across from Donny. The plastic squeaked under my weight, the only sound louder than the rhythmic beeping of the machines.

“They did emergency surgery to relieve the pressure,” he said. “Doctors say he’s stable for now. But... they don’t know when—if—he’ll wake up.” The uncertainty hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The word "if" echoed in my mind, a monstrous possibility I refused to acknowledge.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Tom. He looked so unlike himself. So fragile. The playful glint that always danced in his eyes was gone, replaced by an unsettling emptiness. The silence between us deepened, broken only by the slow, steady rhythm of the heart monitor, a relentless metronome marking time on a life that seemed suspended.

“I should’ve stopped him,” Donny muttered, guilt thick in his voice. “I told him I’d go, but he was stubborn. He said he wanted to let me rest. Said it’d only take a minute.” The words were a litany of regret, a desperate attempt to rewrite the past, to undo the unthinkable. He was wishing for that minute back, a minute that had shattered their world.

I reached out and took Donny’s hand, my fingers wrapping around his cold, trembling ones. He squeezed back, a silent plea for comfort, for understanding.

I shook my head. “Don’t do that to yourself,” I said gently to Donny, my voice a strained whisper. “This wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

But even as I said it, a darker thought crept in—the same one that had been crawling around the edges of my mind since I got the call. What if it wasn’t just an accident?

I looked down at Tom in the hospital bed. I reached out and gently placed my hand over his. It was warm, but limp. Unresponsive. My heart ached, a dull, throbbing pain that threatened to overwhelm me.

“The police don’t have much. The camera footage is too blurry to read the plate.” Donny said.

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t—not yet. Because deep down, I knew something was off. Not with how things have been. Not with Dominus still out there. Threats, intimidation, vandalism… it had all been a build up, a crescendo of malice. But this… this was a symphony of destruction.

Donny sat back down, his fingers trembling as he rubbed them against his jeans. “The police said it might’ve been random,” he murmured, “but…”

I looked up at him. “But what?”

He hesitated, his gaze darting around the sterile room as if he expected someone to be listening. “It doesn’t feel random, Lu. The car didn’t even try to slow down. It went right for him—like it meant to hit him.”

Something cold slid down my spine, a glacial river of fear that seeped into my bones.

“What kind of car was it?” I asked, barely breathing. I felt the need for information, for concrete details, burning inside me like a fever.

“Black, sleek. Tinted windows. Looked… expensive.”

That was all I needed to hear. The air in the room seemed to thin, making it hard to breathe.

My stomach twisted as I pieced it together. Dominus. Of course it was him. And this… this was a line he could never uncross. Now he’d finally done something that couldn’t be taken back. He'd tried to kill Tom.

Donny looked at me then, really looked—like he could see the storm beginning to form behind my eyes. “You know something,” he said quietly.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

His voice lowered. “Lu, tell me the truth. Was this… because of you?”

My chest tightened. I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t want it to be true. But the look on Donny’s face deserved honesty.

“It might be,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Dominus… You know him. He’s been watching me. Following me. Threatening. Last night, he was waiting right outside the diner. He and his men cornered me in the alley—demanding payment. When he realized I didn’t have it…” I swallowed hard. “He said he’d do anything to get his due. Anything. He threatened Tom.”

Donny turned his gaze to Tom lying unconscious on the hospital bed. His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping rhythmically. “I can’t believe this is happening. He’s hurting the people close to you…”

I nodded, guilt clawing at my throat. “I should’ve done something sooner. Found the money. Warned Tom. Anything. But I didn’t. I froze. And now—” My voice broke. “Now he’s in that bed because of me.”

I shook my head, the shame suffocating. “This is all my fault. If it weren’t for me, none of this would’ve happened.”

“No,” Donny snapped, his voice sharp and sudden. He grabbed my shoulder, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Don’t go there. This—this isn’t on you. It’s on him. Dominus. That bastard did this, not you.”

The room fell quiet again, the steady beep of Tom’s monitor filling the silence. But something had shifted in the air—it wasn’t just grief now. It was fury. Controlled, cold, and determined. A brand of anger that simmered just beneath the surface, far more dangerous than any outburst.

...

After seeing Tom lying there—broken, bruised, barely holding on—I couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on my chest. The guilt sat like a stone inside me, heavy and sharp. This was all because of me. Because of a debt I couldn’t pay. Because I was too slow, too stupid, too scared.

I raked my fingers through my hair, tugging at the strands like it would somehow shake the thoughts loose. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Tom’s life was on the line. And if I didn’t act soon, Donny’s could be next. Or Rosetta’s. Dominus didn’t care who he crushed—only that I suffered. He was a sculptor of misery, and I was his masterpiece, tragically unfinished.

I sat in the corner of the coffee shop, half-hiding in the shadows, my hands trembling as I wrapped them around a paper cup gone cold. The bitter dregs coated my tongue with the taste of failure. My gaze drifted to the window, where the world kept moving—cars passing, people laughing, living—like nothing had happened. Like Tom wasn’t lying in a hospital bed because of me. The normalcy was a cruel mockery.

I let out a breath and slumped back into the seat, dragging my hands into the pockets of my jacket. My fingers brushed against something thick, rectangular. A card? I pulled it out slowly, confused for a second—until the crimson and gold made my heart lurch.

The Elysium Club.

Conrad Sterling. His name glinted in gold foil like a taunt, a promise, a threat. I remembered how it ended up in my pocket—pressed there like a secret, whispered invitation from a devil.

But now?

The air in the coffee shop thickened. I could almost smell the expensive cologne Sterling wore, the scent of aged leather and old money that clung to him like a second skin.

I stared at the card, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been. The Elysium Club. Whispers followed it – a place where fortunes were made and broken, where desires were catered to, no matter how dark. A playground for the elite, fuelled by secrets and desperation.

Is this really who I’m becoming? The thought burned like acid. Someone who would trade their soul to save themselves, to save their friends?

My lips parted in a bitter laugh, but no sound came. I was already halfway there, wasn't I? My debt to Dominus had already chipped away at my moral compass, forcing me to compromise in ways I never thought possible. How much further could I fall?

I flipped the card over. There it was—the number to call. One decision away. One call, and maybe I’d have the money. Maybe Tom would live. Maybe I could stop Dominus before he tore anyone else apart.

But at what cost?

My hands trembled as I held the card tighter, the edges digging into my skin. Calling this number meant crossing a line, entering a world from which there might be no return. It meant accepting Sterling’s offer, whatever unspoken price came with it.

The faces of Tom, Donny, and Rosetta flashed in my mind. Their smiles, their laughter, the way they always had my back, even when I didn't deserve it. They didn’t deserve to suffer for my mistakes.

I bit down on my lower lip, hard. Selling drugs was out of the question—I wasn’t going to destroy lives just to save my own. But this… this was different. Sort of. Maybe. Was it? It felt like a twisted game of moral hopscotch, each square a justification, each jump a compromise. I was trying to convince myself that what I was about to do was less evil, a victimless crime, a necessary evil. But deep down, I knew I was lying.

I hated the thought. Hated how cheap it made me feel. Hated that I was even considering it. My reflection in the dark window stared back, a gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger. I used to pride myself on my integrity, on my ability to sleep at night. Now, both were distant memories.

But the truth was, I had nothing left. No time. No power. No pride. The vultures were circling, their shadows growing longer with each tick of the clock. They were coming for my house, my car, everything I’d worked for. And I was powerless to stop them.

Only debt. Only desperation. A suffocating blanket woven from unpaid bills and empty promises. It clung to me, choking the life out of me, leaving me gasping for air in the ruins of my former life.

I stared at the number again. A number that held the key to my salvation, or perhaps, my damnation. My thumb hovered over my phone. Each beat of my heart echoed in my ears, a frantic drum solo against the backdrop of my crumbling world.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” I whispered, voice cracking. I knew he wouldn't approve of this. He would be angry of me.

Then, with a deep breath, I dialed. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Each ring felt like a hammer blow to my conscience.

I nearly hung up. My thumb hovered over the red button, a desperate plea for escape. My heart hammered in my chest like it wanted out, a trapped bird desperate to flee its cage. I imagined the relief that would wash over me, the brief respite from the crushing weight of my reality.

But then—click. A smooth, velvety voice answered, low and unhurried, like he’d been expecting my call all along. It was a voice that oozed power and control, a voice that promised both salvation and ruin.

“This is Conrad.”

I froze. The words caught in my throat. My mouth was dry, my fingers shaking. For a second, I thought maybe he’d hang up. Maybe I could pretend I’d misdialed and forget this ever happened.

But then he spoke again—this time gentler, almost curious. “Lu, isn’t it?”

My breath hitched. He knew. Of course he knew.

“Y-yeah. It’s me,” I said, voice quiet, unsure.

A brief pause, then a slow, deliberate chuckle. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon. Or at all. I assumed you were the proud type.”

I swallowed, shame prickling at the edges of my skin like frost. “I wasn’t going to. I told myself I’d figure something else out.”

“And yet… here you are.”

Silence again. I hated how smug he sounded. How right he was.

“Something happened,” I said finally. “To someone close to me. He’s in the hospital. Because of a debt I owe. I need the money. Fast.”

“I see,” Conrad said, the playfulness in his voice fading. “Dominus did something terrible to Tom?”

I blinked. “How did you—?”

“I make it my business to know things, Lu. Especially about people I find interesting.”

That sent a chill through me, but I said nothing.

He exhaled, slow and thoughtful. “So you’ve decided you’re ready to work. To sell your body, as you so bluntly put it.”

I winced, the words hitting harder than I expected.

“Do I even have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice. But desperation tends to blur the lines.”

I bit down on my lip again. Hard. Blood warm on my tongue. “What do I have to do?”

“I’d rather explain that in person,” he said. “Come to the club. 9 PM sharp. Discreet entrance at the back alley. Use the card.”

He paused, then added in a softer tone, “Dress like you’re ready to be seen. You’ll only get one first impression, Lu.”

The line clicked. Dead.

I stared at my phone, my reflection dim in the black screen. The words you’ll only get one first impression echoed in my mind.

I felt sick. What was I doing?

I shoved the phone back in my pocket and slumped forward, resting my elbows on the table and burying my face in my hands. The cheap laminate felt cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the burning dread churning in my stomach.

Nine pm.

That gave me a few hours. Hours to doubt. To panic. To run.

But I knew I wouldn’t. Because Tom was still in that hospital bed. And Dominus wasn’t going to wait forever.