The crystal fluted glass, weighty and cold, shattered against the gilt-edged portrait. Shards rained like frozen tears onto the polished marble, scattering amongst designer heels and bespoke suits. Nairi’s scream ripped through the calculated hum of the engagement party, a raw, primal sound that silenced the polite laughter and the smooth jazz. The garish neon glow of the Tsovasar high-rise ballroom, designed to mimic the perpetual city twilight, flickered over the faces of the city’s elite, now frozen in varying degrees of shock and disdain. “Two weeks!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Two weeks since Lusine died, and you’re toasting to… to *happiness*? To *new beginnings*?” Her gaze swept across the bewildered crowd, landing on the beaming, oblivious couple at the center. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you *dare* pretend she didn’t exist! Don’t you dare disrespect her memory with this… this vulgar parade!” A woman in a shimmering gown recoiled, clutching a diamond-encrusted clutch. A man in a tailored jacket muttered into his phone. The jazz band faltered, then cut out entirely, leaving an unsettling quiet punctuated only by the distant thrum of the city and the incessant drumming of rain against the panoramic windows. Nairi felt the tremor in her hands, the heat blazing behind her eyes, the familiar surge of grief twisting into a corrosive fury. “Nairi Verian.” The voice, cold and precise, cut through the stunned silence. Maro Kavourian, her professional rival, stood a few paces away, impeccably dressed as always. His dark eyes, almost always veiled behind professional coolness, held an open sneer. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor of disgust played at the corner of his thin lips. “A truly captivating display,” he drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly. “Such passion. Such… instability.” He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze dissecting her disheveled hair, her tear-streaked face. “Tell me, Verian, how exactly do you propose to restore the Arch-Cathedral with this… temperament? The city’s most prestigious heritage project. Or perhaps you’ll smash a priceless fresco when a column offends you?” Heat flooded her cheeks, not from shame, but from sudden loathing. Maro had always been a thorn in her side, an arrogant, calculating rival who saw architecture as a ladder to power, not a sacred calling. He’d coveted the Cathedral project for years, and now, in her most vulnerable moment, he was moving in for the kill. “You wouldn’t understand, Maro,” she spat, her voice tight with suppressed rage. “You wouldn’t understand anything that isn’t measured in profit margins or public accolades. Lusine was a *person*. A brilliant, vibrant, irreplaceable person. Not a stepping stone for your ambition.” He merely raised an eyebrow, a picture of insufferable composure. “Indeed. A person who, tragically, is no longer with us. And you, it seems, are rapidly following suit, at least professionally. I believe, given this… unfortunate exhibition, it would be in the project’s best interest for you to formally forfeit. Consider it a mercy.” Before Nairi could unleash the torrent of invective building in her chest, a hand gently, yet firmly, touched her elbow. Tigran. Lusine’s brother. His face, commonly a mirror of Lusine’s bright cheer, was etched with a profound sorrow. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped, his eyes shadowed. “Security, stand down,” Tigran said, his voice quiet but commanding, addressing the two imposing figures in dark suits who had just appeared at the edge of the scene. They hesitated, looking to the party host, Arvan, who merely gave a curt nod. Tigran turned back to Nairi, his grip on her arm tightening, offering an anchor in the swirling chaos. “Nairi, please. Don’t do this.” His eyes, the same warm hazel as Lusine’s, pleaded with her. He pulled a small, worn leather-bound journal from his inner jacket pocket, along with a folded parchment. “She… she left this for you. Her mountain list. She always said you two would complete it together.” He pressed them into her hands, his fingers brushing hers, a fleeting comfort. “And this. A cabin, in Veris. She always loved the Khazhar Peaks. Go. Get away from… all of this. Find some peace, Nairi. Before it completely consumes you.” The worn notebook, familiar and precious in her grip, offered sudden solace. It was Lusine’s, filled with her quirky handwriting and ambitious dreams. The thought of escaping the suffocating wealth and the judgmental stares, of leaving the oppressive, relentless Tsovasar rain for the silent, cleansing snow, was a powerful, undeniable pull. She looked at Tigran, at the genuine anguish in his eyes, and a fragile understanding passed between them. He, too, was grieving. He, too, seemed crushed by Lusine’s absence. Without another word, Nairi turned and pushed through the murmuring crowd, the journal clutched tightly. The relentless city rain, often a familiar companion, now felt like a cold, judgemental shroud. She drove, not back to her empty apartment, but towards the northern highway, leaving the neon-drenched towers behind, their artificial glow fading in her rearview mirror. The hours melted into a blur of asphalt and increasing elevation, the rain giving way to sleet, then finally, to heavy, silent snow. The air grew thinner, sharper, carrying the scent of pine and ice. Veris. A collection of ancient, snow-laden log cabins nestled precariously on the edge of the towering Khazhar Peaks. The village was a ghost town, only a few wisps of smoke curling from stone chimneys against the bruised twilight sky. Her destination was a small, isolated cabin, its windows dark, a heavy blanket of snow draped over its low-slung roof. It was drafty, cold, and utterly silent. Perfect. She lit the ancient oil lamp, its faint glow barely chasing away the encroaching gloom. The air smelled of damp wood, forgotten dust, and something else, something ancient and earthy. The only sound was the soft sigh of the wind outside, and the occasional creak of the old timbers settling. With unsteady fingers, Nairi untied the leather strap of Lusine’s notebook. Its pages, typically filled with playful doodles and ambitious plans, felt heavier than she remembered. She opened it to the first page, expecting to see Lusine’s neat, enthusiastic script listing ‘Summit the Serpent’s Tooth’ or ‘Map the Forgotten Falls’. Instead, scrawled across the inside cover, barely legible beneath a faded sketch of a mountain peak, was a single, chilling message, rendered in an uneven, blood-red ink that looked disturbingly fresh: ‘If I don’t come back, check the structural logs.’

The Neon Wake