Page 155 of Celestial Combat

He raised an eyebrow. “You want me to vandalize public property with you?”

I smirked. “It’s encouraged. Look – free cans.” I pointed at a crate full of half-used spray cans lined up like toys. “It’s not illegal if they invite you.”

Zane hesitated, but only for a second. He rolled his eyes, smiling to himself in that quiet way he did – like he’d already made up his mind before pretending to argue.

We picked a corner of the wall that hadn’t been swallowed up by neon chaos yet. It was near the bottom, between a yellow ghost and someone’s sad little scribbled heartbreak poem.

Zane shook a black can and leaned in first. He moved with quiet confidence, even when he was out of his element. No guide lines. No hesitation. Just a slow spray, a subtle curve, and then another.

K.

Z.

Just like that.

Our initials, side by side. Simple. Clean. Quiet.

I stared at them for a second. So small in the noise of the wall, but they hit me like a punch to the chest. Not loud. Not bold. Just real.

“Wait.”I reached down and grabbed a gold can.

He tilted his head, watching me, eyes curious.

I stood on my toes and sprayed a small crown above the initials. It came out a little uneven – more street-art than regal – but it glimmered in the alley light. A three-point crown. Tiltedslightly to the right. Perched over the ‘K’ and ‘Z’ like it belonged there.

“Triumph,” He murmured.

I nodded. “We could do anything.”

Zane stepped back, hands in his pockets, staring at the wall.

I could feel him looking at me instead of the wall now. Heat crept up my neck.

That little crown meant everything.

Because we weren’t supposed to be doing this. Me and him. This was all wrong – bodyguard, best friend’s sister, the whole mess of it. We weren’t just bending rules. We were shattering them. But that crown? That was the quiet rebellion. That was the symbol we’d get past it.

Just me and him.

K. Z. And a crown above us.

The subway groaned as it pulled out of the station, the lights above flickering once before settling into a low, humming glow. We were packed in tight – not shoulder to shoulder, but close enough. Late afternoon crowds meant businessmen loosened their ties, teens stared blankly at phones, and tired moms leaned into their toddlers with eyes half-shut. And us.

Zane stood tall beside me, one hand gripping the metal bar above while the other brushed against mine – just barely, but on purpose. I was curled into him like a secret, my head resting on his chest. The weight of his body steadied me, like a column of quiet strength in a train car full of noise.

We were private among crowds. That strange kind of closeness that only happens in the middle of chaos.

“Where are we going?” I mumbled against the soft cotton of his white tee. He smelled like leather and sandalwood, and something warm that felt like home.

“You’ll see,” he said, voice low and steady, replaying in Japanese. His thumb grazed my knuckles.

We were swaying slightly with the rhythm of the train when an older Japanese woman across from us smiled. She was small, her black hair pulled into a low bun. She nodded at me with a kind smile, then at Zane.

“You two are such a beautiful couple,” she said in Japanese.

Zane didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just smiled back and said, “Thank you.”

The woman’s eyes crinkled as she looked at me. “How long’ve you been married?”