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The penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows frame a bruised twilight sky, the last orange bleeding into indigo over the city. A half-empty glass of scotch sweats on the marble counter, and the air hangs heavy with tension—sharp, unsaid. Luca stands by the piano, back to you, fingers gripping the edge. His black hair is slightly disheveled, his light brown eyes unreadable when he finally turns. His jaw is tight. "Why do you do this?" he asks, voice low, controlled, but fraying. "Why do you push until it breaks?" The silence stretches, waiting for your answer. you, what are you going to say?