The car ride back to the Valencia estate was silent.

Celia sat in the passenger seat, her hands neatly folded in her lap, but Axel could see the tremor in her fingers. The dim streetlights flickered against the window, casting long shadows across her face. She wasn't crying—not anymore. But the way she stared blankly ahead, as if she wasn't truly seeing the road before them, told Axel enough.

The house was dark when they arrived, staff having long since retired for the night. Axel opened the door for her, but Celia didn't move right away. She exhaled slowly, gathering herself, then stepped out with quiet dignity, like she had done a thousand times before.

Axel followed her inside, watching as she walked through the grand hall with the same composure she always carried. But something was different now. The weight she had hidden so well over the years—he could see it, settling on her shoulders like an invisible cloak.

She turned at the base of the grand staircase, finally meeting his gaze.

"You didn't have to do that," she murmured.

"Yes, I did." His voice was firm, unwavering. "He deserved worse."

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. She reached out, fingers brushing against his cheek in a rare display of affection. "You have his fire," she said softly. "But don't become him."

Axel clenched his jaw. He wasn't sure how to respond to that.

Without another word, Celia ascended the stairs, disappearing into the dimly lit halls of their home.

Axel stood there for a moment, his fists still tight at his sides. He thought of his grandfather's words, the hushed whispers of the family, the humiliation in Anthony's eyes.

Would anything change after tonight? Or had he simply set another fire in a house already burning?

He exhaled sharply.

He wasn't ready to go to bed. Not yet.

The night was a blur of flashing lights, pounding bass, and the dizzying haze of alcohol. Axel had lost track of how many drinks he had downed, how many different hands had brushed against his as he moved from the bar to the dance floor and back again.

The club was packed, a sea of bodies moving under neon lights, the air thick with heat, sweat, and the scent of liquor. Everything felt distant—muted—like he was watching himself from outside his own body. The night had started with a few drinks, but somewhere between his first whiskey and the slow burn of something stronger, Axel had let go of everything weighing him down.

He didn't care anymore.

Javi and Diego were drinking just as much, feeding off the reckless energy he was giving off. Diego had already moved to a booth, deep in conversation with two girls who hung onto his every word. Javi, on the other hand, was making a show of ordering the most expensive bottle he could find, flashing a grin at the bartender like he owned the place.

Axel?

Axel was floating.

He let himself be pulled onto the dance floor, surrounded by people who didn't know him, didn't care who he was. A girl pressed herself against him, whispering something he couldn't hear over the music. He smirked, his hands settling lazily on her hips as they swayed to the beat.

Then, she kissed him.

It was sudden, aggressive—like she wanted to claim him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body pressed flush against his. He didn't pull away. Didn't care. The alcohol dulled the edges of everything, and for a moment, he let himself get lost in it.

Until he felt the shift.

A sharp tug at his shoulder.

Then, a voice. Angry. Slurred. Dangerous.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?"

Axel turned, his gaze landing on a guy—tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly drunk. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, eyes burning with barely-contained rage.

Great. Another asshole with something to prove.

Axel smirked lazily. "You tell me."

The guy's glare flicked to the girl, who was now nervously stepping back, hands raised in defense.

"She's my girl," the guy spat. "You think you can just—"

Axel laughed—sharp, humorless. "Not my problem, man."

But that was the wrong thing to say.

The guy lunged, shoving Axel hard. His back hit the edge of the bar, the impact jarring, but Axel didn't stumble. Didn't even flinch. He just rolled his shoulders, tilted his head, and gave the guy a slow, mocking grin.

He wanted a fight?

Axel was more than happy to give him one.

Javi and Diego noticed immediately.

From across the room, Diego groaned, already pulling away from the girls he was with. "Fucking hell, not again."

Javi was laughing. "Took longer than I thought."

But before either of them could reach him, the first punch was thrown.

It was messy, uncoordinated—drunk aggression at its finest. The guy swung wide, and Axel dodged easily, sidestepping at the last second. He could've walked away, should've walked away. But the anger was already there, bubbling beneath his skin, waiting for an excuse.

And this?

This was perfect.

Axel's fist connected with the guy's jaw hard. The impact sent him stumbling back, crashing into the bar stools. Gasps rippled through the crowd, but Axel wasn't done.

The guy recovered fast, snarling, launching himself forward—this time with more force. Axel caught the movement in his periphery but didn't dodge fast enough. A fist slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. Sharp pain. White-hot adrenaline.

The fight escalated fast.

Tables overturned. Glass shattered.

Someone—maybe Javi—threw a punch at another guy who had tried to jump in. Then Diego got involved.

And just like that, it was chaos.

People screamed as the bouncers stormed in. One grabbed Axel's arm, but he twisted, sending an elbow into the guy's ribs—a mistake. The bouncer staggered back, cursing.

That's when the alarms went off.

Someone had called security. Then, the police.

The flashing red and blue lights cut through the club like a blade.

Diego, still catching his breath, looked up. "Shit."

Javi groaned, rubbing his knuckles. "Yeah, we're fucked."

Axel didn't move.

Rough hands seized him, yanking him backward. He struggled, adrenaline still roaring through him, but the grip was unrelenting.

"Stay down, kid," a cop's voice barked in his ear.

Axel clenched his jaw, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

Diego and Javi were being hauled away too, their protests drowned out by the commotion. The bar was wrecked—tables overturned, glass shards glinting on the floor, blood smeared across the counter where someone had taken a nasty hit.

The cold metal of the handcuffs snapped around Axel's wrists.

Click. Click.

And just like that, it was over.

He was shoved into the back of a police car, the door slamming shut with a finality that should've made him feel something.

Regret, maybe.

Instead, Axel just laughed. Low. Bitter. Hollow.

Diego groaned beside him, rubbing his split lip. "Fantastic. Absolutely fucking fantastic."

Javi, slumped against the seat, let out a breathless chuckle. "Well. At least it was entertaining."

Axel didn't respond.

He just stared out the window, his reflection staring back at him in the glass—a mess of blood, sweat, and reckless choices.

And for the first time that night, he felt it.

The emptiness.

The tension in the lecture hall was palpable. Students hunched over their desks, gripping their pens tightly, their faces drawn in concentration—or despair. The only sounds were the steady ticking of the wall clock and the occasional rustle of paper.

At the front of the room, Professor Estrella stood with his arms crossed, sharp eyes scanning the students like a hawk watching its prey. He was notorious in the engineering department—a man who took pride in weeding out the weak.

"No calculators," he had announced at the start. "No notes. If you don't know how to solve these problems from memory, you shouldn't be in my class."

Leila swallowed hard, staring at the crisp white sheet of paper in front of her. Five questions.

Just five.

And yet, her mind was already spiraling.

The first problem was a kinematics equation—velocity, acceleration, time. She knew this. She had reviewed it. And yet, when she tried to set up the formula, her hand hesitated. What was the equation again? Was it displacement over time? Or was she supposed to factor in initial velocity?

Focus.

She forced herself to write something down, trying to keep the panic at bay. But then came the second question—forces acting on an inclined plane.

Her stomach twisted.

She vaguely remembered going over this in the study group, but the numbers blurred together in her mind. Did she use sine or cosine for the angle?

Leila exhaled slowly, gripping her pen until her knuckles turned white. The room felt smaller, the ticking of the clock louder.

Around her, some students were already scribbling away, their hands moving with confidence. Others looked just as lost as she felt, their brows furrowed, chewing on their pens in frustration.

To her right, she heard someone whisper.

"Bro, did you get 9.8 m/s² for number two?"

"Shut up," another hissed. "He's looking this way."

Professor Estrella's gaze snapped toward them, and the two students immediately went silent. He took a slow step forward, heels clicking against the tiled floor.

"Let me remind you," he said, voice low but heavy with warning, "that cheating is grounds for automatic failure. But if you'd rather not waste my time, feel free to leave now."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Leila tried to push the tension away, but it coiled around her, squeezing tighter with every passing second. She moved on to question three—energy conservation.

She could feel it now.

The exhaustion. The pressure. The weight of not being good enough.

By the time she reached the last problem, the numbers swam on the page. Her brain was running on fumes, her hands shaking from frustration.

The final minute was called.

Leila's heart pounded as she scrambled to complete the last equation, her writing messy, desperate.

"Pens down."

Professor Estrella's voice cut through the room like a blade.

Leila barely finished writing when the papers were collected.

She sat back, shoulders slumping. Her head was pounding. Her entire body felt drained.

A few students stretched, already turning to their friends to discuss their answers. The ones who knew they did well looked relaxed. Others looked like they had been hit by a truck.

Leila didn't say anything.

She didn't need to.

Because when she got her paper back the next day, the red ink glaring up at her confirmed what she already knew.

A failing score.

Leila stared at it, her stomach sinking.

She had studied. She had prepared.

And yet, it still wasn't enough.

At the back of the room, she overheard some students talking.

"I got a 92. Not bad."

"Dude, I barely scraped an 80."

"Estrella's tests are insane. But honestly, it's not that hard if you know what you're doing."

Leila clenched her jaw. Not that hard?

She could feel the gap widening between her and them. The study group helped, but there were concepts she still hadn't grasped, things that came easily to the top students but left her drowning.

She couldn't let this happen.

She refused to let this happen.

That night, instead of heading back to her dorm, she packed up her books, grabbed a fresh notebook, and made her way to the library.

If she had to spend the entire night going through every problem set, every reading, every goddamn equation—then so be it.

Because she wasn't going to fall behind.

She couldn't afford to.