The eighth night felt like the end of one life and the beginning of another. No text arrived during the day. No glances at work. Just silence that carried the weight of everything we’d built — and broken — together. The collar around her neck (the one she’d put on herself last night) stayed on all day under her high-neck blouse. I could see the faint outline when she turned her head. My own neck still bore the faint red shadow where mine had lived for so long. We were both marked now. Equal. Owned.

At 9:58 PM the door to her building buzzed open as I approached — no coat tonight. I walked up the stairs naked. Rain hammered the windows like applause for what was coming. Her flat door stood wide. Incense burned low in the living room — jasmine mixed with something darker, almost like smoke from a ritual fire.